


Of Fealty and Freedom

by rnewton



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle, Canon Compliant, Cousin Incest, F/M, Politics, Romance, Season 6 Spoilers, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, season 7 imagined
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnewton/pseuds/rnewton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having defeated the Boltons in the climactic Battle for the North, Jon Snow longs to put down his sword and search for peace and summer in the South. But winter is coming, and with Winterfell comes responsibility. Jon quickly finds himself trapped in his own home - forced to take up the mantle of leadership he never wanted and govern a deeply divided people while his relationship with Sansa slowly changes. Loyalties are tested and alliances are questioned as the North thirsts for vengeance and readies itself for the wars to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loyalty of a Bannerman

 

 

The air over the castle grew steadily colder as the sun dipped under the mountains surrounding Winterfell. Of late the sun was a pale thing; whose warmth seemed to barely touch the earth. Jon Snow stood upon the battlements of the castle, as he had almost every night since their arrival, watching the last dying rays of light and wondering if they would return the next morning.

 

_ Perhaps this time the sun will not rise again,  _ thought Jon grimly.  _ Winter is coming and the long night cannot be far behind. _ Indeed the sun would rise again, yet he would stand here tomorrow as well, waiting for a sign that may never come.

 

Not for the first time he wondered what he was doing here, in this home that he had never truly felt welcome in _.  _ It had been only a moons turn since the great battle of the North which had overthrown the traitor House Bolton for good. The men had taken to calling it the Battle of the Bastards, though of course not in Jon’s hearing.

 

_ Well except Tormund _ , thought Jon wryly. The large wilding man did not care about what Jon did or did not hear. 

 

He would greet Jon in the great hall most mornings with a bellow of, “Har, here comes the Crow. Or is it the  _ Commander  _ Crow now? Come boy, sit and let me tell you how a man wins a battle”. He would then hit Jon hard on the back, force him into a seat beside him and launch into yet another account of how he killed “that Southern cunt Umber”. 

 

Jon was thankful for that, at least there was no pretence in Tormunds words, only his tall stories. But lately the men had started treating him differently, more politely, formally, and always with a tinge of fear. Jon knew that the latter was partly his fault. It had begun at the end of the battle, Jon was so weary and heartsick that when his Northmen came dragging Bolton captives for judgement, he had unsheathed Longclaw and beheaded the traitors then and there. Afterwards he had strode off in a black mood, his mouth tasting of bile. 

 

 _What would father think of me, I wonder?_ Try as he might, Jon could not imagine approval on Eddard Stark’s face. _Did you look them in the eyes, Jon?_ _Did you listen to their last words, and judge them fairly under the sight of the Old Gods?_

 

Jon sighed in frustration, of course he hadn’t, and had acted the tyrant in the very moment of their victory. Yet the men did not seem to care too much, and instead of calling him an oppressor there were only polite greetings of “my lord” and “Lord Commander”. In recollection, that was the last day that Jon had heard the word ‘bastard’ aimed at him. 

 

His entire life he had dreamed of a day where he would hear the end of that word, yet now he was left wondering whether it was respect or fear that that held his men’s tongue. Perhaps it did not matter, Jon would never be Lord of Winterfell and in truth his actions meant very little in the eyes of the North as bastards were already seen to have bad blood. 

 

_ Let Sansa worry about the proper way to sentence an enemy or greet a friend _ .  _ She was likely born with courtesies and charms already on her lips _ , thought Jon with a small smile. 

 

His sister would be the Lady of Winterfell now, and she would rule the North well. As for him, Jon fully intended to ride when Sansa was well established as Lady. Whereto he did not know, only that he wanted to taste the last fruits of summer before winter truly gripped the land in a coat of frost.

 

The novelty of being at his childhood home had fast worn off, and for many days now the high grey walls of Winterfell felt more and more encroaching, until Jon could scarcely bare to walk in the dark and narrow passages of the castle. The memory of Rickon’s death still hung over him like a dark shroud, and the very stones of Winterfell reminded him of his failure to protect his brother.

 

_ How is it right that the trueborn heir of Lord Stark is dead and you are alive? You should have died before letting him fall. _ Jon’s eyes filled with tears at the thought of his youngest brother, and his fingers involuntarily curled into fists. When that arrow had found Rickon’s heart, all Jon had desired was to die on that grim field as well. Only two things had stopped him simply sheathing his sword and letting a foeman cut him to pieces: the burning desire to rip Ramsay Bolton apart, and the knowledge that his death would mean the extinction of the Wildlings and death of his sister.

 

That last thing had frightened him greatly, Jon had seen the steel in Sansa’s eyes when she swore she would rather end herself than return to Ramsay’s clutches. The little girl who had once believed that all songs were true was gone now, replaced by a woman hardened by suffering and loss. He had sworn to always protect her, and to do that he must live.

 

 _You do not have leave to die and you’ll be fighting their battles forever. You fought, and you lost, but you will never rest,_ a twisted version of Ser Alliser Thorne’s final words whispered in his ear. It troubled Jon more than cared to admit. No doubt if he had fallen the red woman, Melisandre, and her fiery god would have brought him back as they had once before.

 

Even now he was tempted to simply leave the castle at night in secret, but Jon was not going to abandon his sister before the North was truly at peace. He owed her that much. Besides, though Ramsay Bolton’s army had long been destroyed there still remained outlaw bands of men that held grudge against House Stark. 

 

_ It will be a while before the Direwolf can fly in peace above our home,  _ he thought wearily. Indeed, until not a few days ago the Dreadfort, ancestral seat of House Bolton, had been under siege to end the grip of the last traitors to the North. A raven had been sent to the castle demanding surrender, and it returned promptly with a reply. 

 

_ The Starks are enemies of the crown and have no claim on the Dreadfort, its lands or its people. The North belongs to the House Bolton, the true wardens of the North and Winterfell. _

 

If Jon had not been so angry he might have laughed. The defiance in the letter was empty, and the Bolton lands had already been divided and gifted to the Lords who had fought with them on the field. The Dreadfort alone stood as the last vestige of Bolton rule.  

 

“‘Tis a hard castle to take, and we don’t have the men or enough siege equipment”, Ser Davos Seaworth had said, as the small war council frowned over old maps that depicted the lands around the Dreadfort. 

 

“The mountains give the defenders too much of an advantage and the only way to avoid an extended campaign would be to attack the fortress from behind using the sea, but we don’t have ships either”, he frowned undoubtedly remembering the great fleet of King Stannis which the traitor brothers of the Night’s Watch had destroyed they mutinied against their Lord Commander. There was something else in his eyes, a fury and sadness Jon had never seen in him. Yet while the older man looked utterly drained, his voice was steady and betrayed none of his thoughts.

 

“Regardless we cannot appear to look weak”, Sansa had said, and Davos nodded reluctantly.

 

“Unfortunately that is as you say m’lady. If we delay attacking, our strength will simply lessen over time and other ambitious Lords may even decide to rebel. Could the Knights of the Vale be persuaded to join us?”

 

But Sansa had already begun to shake her head. “They came to fight at Winterfell, they won’t sit through a siege that could last months. Perhaps we could write to Lord Manderly of White Harbor instead. He has many ships at his command, and honour may compel him to fight this time.”

 

Jon’s face had hardened at the mention of Lord Manderly. His House was one of the largest and richest of the Lords Bannermen to Winterfell, yet he hadn’t answered the call when Sansa had summoned him to the field of battle. But it seemed they had little choice but to send men to the Dreadfort and pray that the Lord would this time bestir himself.

 

He had intended to lead the siege himself, but Sansa would not hear of it. “Your place is home Jon, we did not take back Winterfell just for you to leave again. There are others who can lead the siege and besides I need you here to deal with the coming Lords. You know as well as I do that they won’t listen to me alone”. There was a slight hurt in her voice as she said the last part, and Jon had to accept the truth of her words.

 

“But who should lead then? There is no other experienced commander and if we give the siege to one of the other Lords they will never respect us”. It was a precarious balance; the Lords Bannermen would be loyal to them now that Ramsay had fallen and the Starks were in power, but it was dangerous to show open frailty with the looming might of the Iron Throne turned against them.

 

Davos had stepped forward then. “Let me take the siege my lord. True, I’m no battle commander but this is no battle. I can wait as long as they can, for years if need be. And I promise you that no smuggler will bypass us to bring them onions this time”.   

 

Though Jon was hesitant to let another man do his work, in the end he had conceded to send a host of three hundred men under the command of Ser Davos to force the remaining Bolton force to yield. He had expected fully that the traitors would lower the portcullis of the fortress and declare that they would be besieged before they surrendered. 

 

Unfortunately, that was exactly what had happened, and while the onion knight could likely continue the siege indefinitely due to aid from Winterfell, a castle as large as the Dreadfort would likely have food and provisions for at least two years and Jon know as well as the defenders did that no siege could last in the North for an extended period. Not with winter coming. Nor could the castle be stormed as Ser Davos had said, as despite only having a token garrison of a hundred men, its strategic placement on low lying mountains meant that one man could throw back ten at need.

 

Aid had thankfully come to Ser Davos before a blizzard had. Lord Manderly, being summoned rather more forcefully this time, had sailed 50 swift ships from White Harbor to the Dreadfort, landing a large host under the walls of the fortress. With the castle surrounded by land and sea by over 1000 men, the final resistance of the Boltons had crumbled. Just like the tallest tower of the Dreadfort, when Lord Manderly had ordered his ship mounted trebuchets to fire. Jon had himself rode into former Bolton lands to accept the surrender of the Bolton men. A few he had sentenced to the Wall, with a stern warning that if they disobeyed the Lord Commander or attempted mutiny, he would ride North to the wall and have them hanged. The Bolton men had fallen to their feet and thanked him, swearing by the old gods and new that they would obey.

 

The castellan of the Dreadfort however, he executed. This second time he had indeed looked him in the eyes and listened to his piteous pleas for mercy. 

 

“Please m’lord, I was only a caretaker of this here castle. I never turned traitor but Lord Bolton would’ve flayed me if I’d left. You have to believe me m’lord”. There was much more of this, and he even swore a few oaths of loyalty to Winterfell. Jon was not fooled by him, the castellan had quickly gained a reputation throughout the North as a vain and cruel man. Though he was low born, Ramsay Bolton had seen his vicious nature and raised him up, and in the time of Bolton rule he had been a tyrant, high in the counsels of Lord Bolton.

 

“Maybe they will see each other in whatever hell they end in”, the fat Lord of White Harbor had remarked with a booming laugh, nodding at Jon approvingly after Longclaw had cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders.

 

“As you say my Lord” said Jon, it seemed a safe thing to say to their highborn vassals. The Lord was a Northman, rough and rugged, yet Jon’s informal tongue was likely coarse and displeasing to his ears, and it was unwise to offend one as powerful as Wyman Manderly. 

 

_ I never did learn how to talk to lords and their ladies,  _ thought Jon _ , I’ll be buggered if I have to learn now. _ Besides, Jon did not truly believe in an afterlife anymore. Having tasted death himself, he knew that all Ramsay and the castellan would see was impenetrable darkness.

 

“Who shall inherit the Dreadfort, Lord Commander?” asked Manderly. “If you need a strong and loyal man to hold it, my grandson would be willing. He is anointed knight, and I promise that he will not fail you”. Jon neglected to mention what he thought of anointed knights to the Lord, and declined as politely as he could. Besides Sansa had already given him instruction for the fate of the Dreadfort.

 

His sister was not a vindictive woman, yet her face hardened and her eyes flashed angrily every time anyone had mentioned the Dreadfort. 

 

“Tear it down Jon”, she had told him as he readied himself to ride. “For thousands of years the Boltons have rivalled with the Starks, but no longer. Tear down its towers brick by brick. No man must ever inhabit that castle again”. It was little to Jon’s liking to waste such a strong fortress but he knew that as long as it stood it would be a beacon for any new rebels against the Starks. So had done just that, and after the weapons, food and horses had been seized, Manderly’s trebuchets had completed the destruction of the keep over three days of continuous firing. 

 

The Lord wore such pained expression every time a tower fell to ruin that Jon almost laughed. An outsider might have believed that Manderly had been ordered to destroy his own holdings, such was his look. To assuage him, Jon promised a small fraction of the Bolton lands to this grandson of his, which the Lord readily agreed to.

 

When the task was done, they had marched to Winterfell together and for the past few days feasted the Lord and his men. Others had come too; Lord Glover and his retinue who looked around at the castle as if they still couldn’t believe that such a small force could have truly taken it, and pale Lord Cerwyn who smiled thinly when they had placed him in a seat of honour, to the left of Sansa on the dais. They feasted each coming Lord separately, so that each would feel that they honoured and listened to him alone.

 

Still more had come, minor lords and their retainers, vassals from major Lords who themselves couldn’t or wouldn’t make the trip out of shame, and even the odd landed knight and merchant. All now flocked to the rising power of Winterfell and House Stark.

 

_ These lords sat at my father’s table and ate with him in friendship and loyalty. They did the same for Robb when he was King in the North, but how many of them fought when called to fulfill their oaths?  _ he asked himself.  _ How many of them fought to defend Sansa when Ramsay raped and abused her for months?  _

 

Sansa had told him very little of her time in captivity, but what little he heard had enraged him. Yet his sister welcomed each guest graciously in turn as they arrived, and promised them the hospitality and friendship of Winterfell. They had in turn promised Jon and Sansa the loyalty and friendship of their own houses, while Jon had merely glowered silently at them..

 

There was a bitter taste in Jon’s mouth for every new man that arrived. He could forgive these men for not fighting under their banner out of fear for their lives, but making a mummer’s show sudden new found loyalty was more than he could stomach. 

 

_ By rights they should fall to Sansa’s feet and beg her forgiveness, not demand friendship.  _  He yearned to tell them all that the blood of Rickon was on their hands, and perhaps he would have if he hadn’t believed that of himself more than any of them.

 

The wildlings had not sat with Lord Eddard, nor ate at his table, nor swore undying loyalty yet they had fought to the death against the Boltons nevertheless, despite the terrible cost. Of the dead four of every five were of the free folk. Already Jon had heard of the extinction of three Wildling bloodlines - one of which was as ancient as House Stark. Not that the guests had cared, there had been no fewer than five brawls between the free folk and Northmen, all of which Jon gathered had been started by Winterfell’s new most loyal subjects.

 

The Wildlings were unruly and undisciplined, but loyal in their way. “We’re not smart like you southern folk. We say we’ll do something, we do it”, Tormund had told him this not a few days before the battle, and it was as true then as it was now. Jon had asked them to respect his father’s halls and not spill blood nor quarrel with the other Northerners, and so far they had mostly obeyed. 

 

But still the wildlings worried Jon, but for another reason. It was a rite of passage for the men of the free folk to steal women from their kin and take them to wife. Stealing a lady as highborn and beautiful as Sansa from the looming towers of Winterfell would make for songs of legend, a deed made even sweeter by her auburn hair. Hair of that colour was rare among the wildlings, and those with it were considered to be born lucky.

 

 _Kissed by fire,_ thought Jon sadly. _But_ _all the luck in the world couldn’t save you Ygritte. If you had lived, would you be here by my side, or would you still hate me for betraying you?_

 

In private Jon had spoken to Tormund about this. “If any man thinks about stealing my sister and wedding her, let him know I will have Ghost geld him”. 

 

The huge man had thrown his head back and howled with laughter at that, before slapping Jon hard on the back, as was his way. “No need to involve the hellhound, boy. Half the men already think you’re a god and the other half think you a vengeful demon conjured by the red witch. I doubt any man would be stupid enough to steal the demon’s sister”.  

 

“This extends to the other women who have come here as guest. The Northern Lords are already wary of the free folk, and I want no further trouble between you”. This was less to Tormunds liking but he had promised Jon all the same. 

 

In the days after that conversation, there had been a few more brawls, but Tormund had stopped them turning bloody. However it had been a close thing and the perpetrators now sat in the dungeons until their Lords were prepared to leave. 

 

“Surely you don’t mean to lock my men away while we feast my lord?” Lord Tallhart had protested, “the wildlings were asking for a thrashing, and my men simply gave it to them”.

 

Jon did not allow his anger to show. “Tell me how the wildlings wronged your men, my lord, and I’ll throw them in the dungeon as well”. He watched as Lord Tallhart fished for words, stuttering as he struggled to form a good reason. After a long while, Jon nodded coolly at him. 

“My Lord father could never abide his men brawling with visitors. The wildlings fought when no-one else would, I would not have them disgraced while they are honoured guests here”.

 

Tallhart’s already ruddy face grew steadily redder, and Jon knew that he was treading on thin ice. Most of the Lord Bannermen did not like reminders that they hadn’t fought in the battle, and Jon wondered whether this time he had overstepped his bounds. But in the end Tallhart had merely bowed and responded with a polite “as you say my lord”. It was after all a safe thing to say. 

 

Since then there had been no brawls, but word of that conversation had gone out and Jon heard more reverent whispers as he walked by, and some men now bent the knee as he passed them  which was even more irritating. He could handle being called a bastard and traitor, he’d gotten used to half the Watch calling him that, but these new polite words made him uncomfortable.

 

The Knights of the Vale were even worse than the Northern Lords, and had lingered in the castle since the end of the battle. There was no escaping them, and there were so many men to host that an entire section of the castle was given to their highborn knights and lords. Of the Northmen, Jon knew that if he held firm they would eventually listen to him, albeit with grumbling. But the Valemen were an entirely different story, proud and prickly and ever defending their honour against imagined slights. 

 

They at least had the sense not to trade insults with the Wildlings, and to Jon’s satisfaction it seemed that the Valemen feared them. This was wise, as even the weakest of the free folk could likely rip apart a Valeman braggart who did not wear armour. They were the hardest of the three peoples to control and would never listen to a baseborn like Jon. Only Sansa had the patience to engage in one of their long-winded and boastful conversations, but at least they did as she bid.

 

They were led by Petyr Baelish, a snake in man’s shape, whose every word Jon mistrusted, and Lord Royce, who was blustery and proud, and walked the castle as if he owned it. Sansa, had invoked the bonds of blood to summon them, and come they had, to undeniably turn the tide of the battle, yet Jon was not at all at ease around any of them.

 

The guests had taken up residence in most of the rooms in the castle, which were full to bursting. Not since the days when Lord Eddard had feasted King Robert Baratheon had the castle hosted this many men. Winterfell’s main keep could house over a thousand, yet many more than that had come, invited or not, such that the rabble had spilled into the ramshackle collection of houses, inns and brothels that was called the Winter town, outside the walls of the keep. Half the houses of the town looked to be broken and crumbling, yet there were still many lights in twinkling merrily through windows that the visitors had taken. Ramsay Bolton and his men might be dead but the Bolton’s had made their mark on Winterfell, and it would be some years before it could be restored back to its former glory. 

 

Jon had a gloomy feeling that Sansa might need his help with the restoration too, and realised with a wry laugh that he might actually be old and grey before he could ride south. That is, if the long night did not come first.

 

It had grown colder, and at last when the final ray of sun was shielded from view, Jon turned around and walked back inside the castle to his chambers. It was mercifully warm inside and Jon smiled to see that the servants had left food on his table; a hot lamb stew with fresh baked bread. It was simple food in truth, yet having lived at the Wall the food tasted beyond all praise to Jon. Ghost was inside sniffing curiously at the strange meat. The direwolf did not often eat lamb, there was precious little of it at the Wall and none to hunt in the woods.

 

Jon’s smiled disappeared when he saw the stack of parchment on the table. Sansa must have sent them; details of how much the visit would cost them as well as further costs from the repairs to Winterfell. He swore loudly when he looked at the final total, it was more than they could afford, yet afford it they must or look weak in the eyes of the bannermen. 

A soft knock on the door turned his head, and Sansa walked in when he called for entry. She had forgone the beautiful wolf embroider dress she usually wore for the arrival of the Lords, and now wore a simple coarse gown made of Northern wool. She smiled at the incredulous looking Jon, who still clutched the parchment tightly as if he wanted reassurance it was not a fake conjured by his imagination.

 

“Have you seen this?” Jon gaped at her, waving the parchment. “These Lords will beggar us before they leave. I doubt even King Robert’s visit cost as much, and that was before the war drained our coffers dry”.

 

Sansa shrugged, “it was always going to be costly” she said, seating herself on a chair covered in bear fur, “but all the Bannermen have brought a gift of some kind as payment. Lord Cerwyn actually sent word for his men to gift a second chest of silver so that he didn’t appear ungenerous. Yesterday morning I had Tormund stand and ask why the Valemen hadn’t gifted us as well. Lord Royce was so offended that a wildling would think his people niggardly that he gifted us with three sets of fine silver inlaid plate-mail armour and a ruby hilted sword”.

 

She giggled at that and Jon had to smile. It had taken weeks for Sansa to smile, and a week more for her to properly laugh. The death of their brother Rickon still hung over them, and even now Jon could sometimes hear her weeping quietly in the night. As pleased as he was to see Sansa in high spirits at last, as always his mood was soured by the mention of the Vale. They had avoided discussing it, yet Jon knew that she wasn’t fooled by his careful words, in the rare times they had come close to the subject. 

 

She had never mentioned the Valemen before the battle, and afterwards she hadn’t explained her silence. It hurt Jon more than he could put into words.

 

_ It’s because she doesn’t trust you Snow, _ a voice inside his head whispered, before he snuffed it out. In the rare times he saw Littlefinger walking through his father’s castle, it had taken his entire strength not to walk over to him and beat him bloody for selling Sansa to the Boltons. Littlefinger seemed to be aware of Jon’s poorly disguised hostility and would usually reward it with a taunting half smile. Yet he preferred to keep to the East wing of the castle, with the other highborn Valemen, and Jon had not seen much of him.   

 

Sansa seemed to sense the change in his mood and guessed what had caused it. Her eyes flicked away from Jon, to look at her hands which entwined restlessly on her lap. She looked as though she wanted to say something but could not get the words out. After the silence had run its course Jon decided to change to subject.

 

He sat beside her so that she could not avoid his gaze long and said quietly “tomorrow we will feast them all together, and listen to what they have to say and what they want. It would be useful if you had any more tricks like that”. He finished with a laugh to make her more comfortable.

 

Her eyes finally met his, and a small smile formed on her lips. “And what if I do,  _ Lord Commander?” _ she said in a defiant tone, stressing the last two words into a challenge for Jon. 

 

Jon smiled as well. “If you do, see that you use them  _ my lady” _ , stressing the last words as she had done. For a moment they looked at each other, then burst into laughter, chortling until their sides hurt and Ghost nudged at Jon in annoyance. 

 

“That I will”, said Sansa rising. “Sleep well Jon, you have a long day tomorrow of greeting and exchanging pleasantries with our guests”. She said it with a half-smile, they both knew what pleasantries Jon wanted to exchange with them, and with that left for her chambers which were down the hallway to his.

 

Jon sat at the table for a long time after she had left, deep in thought. The sooner Sansa was confirmed the Lady of Winterfell and liege of the Northern Lords the sooner he would be able to leave for the south. After a long while Jon rose and climbed into his bed, yet found he could not sleep.

 

_ I will make them swear allegiance to her tomorrow, _ he decided. The feast tomorrow would be a good day for that as all the Bannermen would be in attendance. Slowly a plan formed in his head, and Jon wondered whether Sansa would approve of it.  _ It does not matter either way, so long as they confirm her as their Lady.  _

 

Sansa had been strangely hesitant to take up the mantle, and so far she had insisted that they govern Winterfell together. She had even declined taking the Lord’s chamber, where Lord and Lady Stark had once resided, in favour of the old room she had shared with Arya as a child. Jon had wondered at that but made no comment, and had taken his old room as well, which was close to hers. He knew that he must rise at dawn and hesitantly closed his eyes. There would be many people to talk to and persuade subtly to Sansa’s cause, but if the gods were good by this time tomorrow he might be able to leave. The thought filled Jon with excitement; it would be just him and Ghost on the Kingsroad until they reached the South. Maybe he’d even find a small holdfast in the South and live with them as a woodsman, enjoying the last days of summer in peace. 

 

Of course the gods were rarely so good.


	2. The White Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon attempts to proclaim Sansa as the Lady of Winterfell, but encounters obstacles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains pretty much all the dialogue from the Northern scenes of Game of Thrones, season 6 episode 10. If you haven't watched that episode yet, I'd recommend reading it afterwards to avoid spoilers.

Jon groaned as a Lord stood, bellowing his displeasure for all to hear. His men added their voice to his, with loud calls of “well spoken”, before the man sat and yet another stood to take his place. This had been going on the entire morning, and there were no signs of reaching an agreement soon.

 

Most of the Lords of the North, or their representatives, were in attendance today and they had much to say about the future. Many of the Vale Lords, and Littlefinger, were present as well, and even some Wildling leaders with Tormund at their head.

 

 _If I had known the storm this would unleash, I might have thought twice about gathering them together_ , thought Jon tiredly. He had called this meeting in hopes that he could declare Sansa as Lady of Winterfell, yet in hours of negotiation no opportunity had presented itself to do that.

 

As was custom, each man had the right to stand and say what he would, but the listeners also had the right to heckle him and loudly disagree with his words. Tempers were wearing thin, and as time went on it seemed that fewer and fewer men were willing to compromise. The core of the disagreement was whether the North should commit to another war on the Iron Throne or prepare themselves for winter and the undead threat that even now grew more powerful beyond the Wall. Jon had been in favour of the latter, yet though men listened to his words, many would not or could not believe in the full threat that the Night King posed.

 

“The Wall has stood for 8000 years”, Lord Glover had objected when Jon had urged them to consider the matter of the White Walkers. “If the Walkers could breach it, it is likely they would already have done so. No, my lord, the Iron Throne is the true threat and we must defend ourselves”.

 

Robett Glover was one of the few lords to readily accept the truth about the Walkers when Jon had spoke to him, yet even he was reluctant to commit an army to the Wall. So they had argued without result on the wrong war, and each man seemed to have even more to say as time went on.

 

Jon thought back to the morning, and remembered how he had woken with almost a cheerful mood. _Today may be the last day I spend in Winterfell,_ he had thought to himself, as he packed a few garments in preparation for his ride South. The thought did not upset him as much as it should have. Winterfell had been hard won from the Boltons, but Jon’s heart was restless and not even behind the high walls of the castle did he feel truly safe or at ease.

 

After he had broken his fast, Jon had visited many of the Northern Lords to gather their support for Sansa’s cause. He had, of course, not directly asked them for support to avoid showing frailty, but at the end of their many varied conversations there was only one question he had truly asked them: “are you loyal to Winterfell and House Stark?”.

Without hesitance, every single one had sworn that indeed they were. Jon had smiled at that afterwards, he would remember their words and should any Lords reject Sansa as their liege, it would be an easy thing to remind them of the pledge they had made only that morning.

 

Only Lady Lyanna Mormont had not seemed fooled. A child she was and a girl, but fiercer than any man Jon had met. She reminded him greatly of her uncle, the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch that men called the Old Bear. Jeor Mormont had been gruff, honorable and true, but he was no fool either. He had a way of looking directly into the hearts of men, and divining the hidden truths of their words - a quality that the Lady seemed to possess as well.

 

Lady Mormont had looked at him long and hard, before saying the words, and Jon knew that she suspected his plans. _It does not matter,_ Jon had thought after that audience. _She said the words and they will bind her. In the end she will support Sansa’s claim as well._

 

In truth this deception troubled Jon, and though he knew it was necessary, he felt unworthy every time a Lord proclaimed allegiance to the Starks. If Sansa had been born a man, it would have been a simple matter to declare her as Lord. But Northmen were stubborn, and never had they been governed by a woman, particularly a woman that looked as Southron as Sansa. However they had pride as well, and if reminded of their promise they would not defy Jon for fear of dishonour.  

 

_Once it is done, the entire North will be united under one banner as it was under father and Robb. The Valemen will be loyal to Sansa as well, and even the Wildlings will heed her words. I have done all I can ever do for her, by the gods let it be enough._

 

After his many meetings with the Lords, he had found himself in the great hall of Winterfell with Ghost beside them. It had been empty then, not full of raucous shouting as it was now. The great chair of Eddard Stark, made of a dark and rich ebony wood, stood proudly on the dias overlooking the rest of the hall. It was one of the few Stark things that the Boltons had not destroyed in the time they had usurped the castle.

 

“Lord Commander”, a soft voice had called as he stood there, inspecting the wooden frame of the seat carefully for any marks or damage.

 

Jon had turned to see the Lady Melisandre standing in the doorway. She was clothed, as usual, in long robes of a deep crimson that swept the floor as she walked. Her ruby choker gleamed with a soft light as she glided slowly towards him. Ghost raised his head at her approach, and licked at one of her pale hands curiously, before curling again to sleep under the high table.

 

“When we had feasts, my family would sit up here”, Jon said, gesturing at the high table, “and I’d sit down there”. Down at the back of the hall, away from Lady Catelyn’s gaze, but even that had not been enough for her.

 

Melisandre looked at him seriously, “it could have been worse Jon Snow. You had a family, you had feasts”.

 

Jon smiled wryly. “Aye, you’re right. I was luckier than most.” His youth had not been kind, but he had been fed, clothed and educated, which was more than many children in Westeros could boast. That was the last time his mood had been light and cheerful, for that very moment Ser Davos had marched into the hall, a dark look in his eyes, which were fixed on Melisandre alone.

 

The onion knight drew something from beneath his cloak and tossed it at the priestess. She caught it, and her expression became downcast. Sorrow and guilt were written plainly on her face, and she bowed her head, unable to look at Ser Davos. Jon saw a child’s toy in her hands, a carved stag whose wood was burned and blackened.

 

“Tell him”, Davos had said. Only two words, but they had been laced with a fury and grief Jon had never seen in the man before. “Tell him who it belonged to”.

 

Melisandre’s eyes met Jon’s briefly before dropping down again. “The Princess Shireen”, she said softly.

 

“Tell him what you did to her. TELL HIM!”, roared Davos his anger finally bursting forth. His voice echoed through the hall.

 

“We burned her at the stake”, said Melisandre softly, unable now to look up and meet Jon’s gaze.

 

Jon looked at her, stunned and appalled. He had spoken to the princess only a few times when she was a guest at Castle Black with her father, King Stannis Baratheon, but he had thought the girl sweet and kind, despite the grey scale that had disfigured half her face in childhood.

 

Davos’s face paled and the anger left him replaced with grief that was now clearly written on his weathered face. In the whole month they had been at Winterfell, he had not mentioned this to Jon and only now with the siege of the Dreadfort over, did the onion knight allow himself to mourn. “I loved that girl, like she was my own”, his words shook with anguish as he spoke, “she was good and kind and you KILLED HER!”

 

He looked at Jon now. “I ask your leave to execute this woman for murder. She admits to the crime”.

 

Jon fixed Melisandre with a hard look. For all her power and pride, the priestess looked vulnerable and for the first time, fearful. “Do you have anything to say for yourself”, he asked flatly.

 

Melisandre looked up, and pinned Jon with a desperate look. “I have been ready to die for many years. If the Lord is done with me, so be it, but he’s not. You’ve seen the Night King, Jon Snow. You know the great war is still to come. You know the army of the dead will be on us soon. And you know I can help you win that war.” There was no lie in her voice, her truly believed that her God could alter the balance when the long night came.

 

 _If I execute her it will simply be a waste of life,_ Jon had thought tiredly. _She is the only one with a knowledge of magic, and magic would be a fine thing against the Walkers. But she murdered a little girl, and I have killed Bolton men for less. I cannot forgive her crimes and besides Davos needs some form of justice._

 

Still, the thought of killing Melisandre filled him with a deep revulsion, as if he were sentencing one of his own blood to death. _If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die._ It was something Eddard Stark drilled into his sons many times, and though the law of the North clearly damned the red woman, Jon found that despite his anger he could not sentence her to die.

“Ride south today. If you return to the North, I’ll have you hanged as a murderer”, Jon had said slowly instead. Yet even as he said the words, and felt they were the right decision, he could not help but feel shame. Melisandre had brought him from the dead and rode with them to every castle, when they had plead for men to fight in the Battle of the North, and this was his payment to her.

 

Yet the Lady had bowed her head without a word and swept out of the hall, but not before Davos had stepped in her way. “If you ever come this way again, I’ll execute you myself”, the onion knight said in a dangerous voice. Melisandre had not responded, and simply gave Davos a sad look. Jon followed the red woman to the stables, to already find her horse saddled and laden with provisions.

 

 _She knew what was coming and she knew I wouldn’t kill her_ , Jon realised when he had seen the horse. The red woman had ways of knowing things that were impossible to know.  

   

“Your plan will not work”, Melisandre had said as they stood there in the stables, watching the horses lazily chew at bundles of hay. “I have seen your path and it does not take you South, not just yet at least. As little as you might like it, this is your place, now and forever, until you are forced to leave it unwillingly”.

 

Jon eyed her darkly. “What do you mean by that, did you see my future in your fires, my lady?”

 

But the priestess only shook her head. “The Lord shows me only what needs to be seen, and no more. All that he has given me these past weeks are premonitions, not vision. I do not know the truth of what is to come, but my heart tells me the harder you fight your destiny, the sooner it will overcome you. You will not be leaving Winterfell tonight, Jon Snow”.

 

She had given him a sad smile then, obviously knowing of this desire to be gone by nightfall. The wind had been blowing, icy cold, yet her words still chilled him more than it ever could.    

 

Suddenly Jon had felt a burning curiosity, as he looked at this strange woman who had once brought him back to life. “Who are you, my lady? Who are you truly?”. Melisandre looked away and for a moment he thought that she would not answer.

 

“A servant of the Lord of Light, and his champion, the prince that was promised”. She looked in his eyes then searching for something, though Jon did not know what. “There will come a time when you need me again. When that day comes, send for me by raven. It will find me no matter where I am. Until then, I remain at your command, now and always”. Melisandre bowed, and with that she had left, riding alone across the frozen moors of Winterfell.

 

Jon watched her slowly shrinking figure from atop the battlements, shame once again coiling in the pit of his stomach. Soft footsteps had alerted him then to the approach of someone else, and he turned to see Sansa walking towards him. His sister had donned her wolf gown, in preparation for the gathering of the Lords. She had glanced at the slow moving figure of Melisandre, but made no comment about it to Jon.

 

 _This might be the last day we spend together,_ Jon had realised. _My sister and the only family I have left. Will she miss me when I am gone?_

 

He wondered how Sansa how rule Winterfell, and decided that she would be as good as father had been. _Suffering has made her wise and she will defend the North to her last breath. In time, she may even take a husband and have children named Stark to rule after her._ The thought of it made him sad, and Jon wondered whether Sansa’s future children would ask about their uncle.

 

 _I will return to see them,_ Jon vowed, but it was an empty promise for he knew truly that once he crossed the Neck, that bog infested land that guarded entry into the North, he would never return until forced to by the long night. For a moment then he had almost considered abandoning his plans to leave, but Winterfell was draining him and Jon longed to see green grass, and trees swaying in a warm breeze, before the world was gripped by ice.  

 

“I’m having the Lord’s chambers prepared for you”, Jon had told her, his eyes unable to meet hers for fear she would see the sadness in them.

 

Sansa had looked puzzled. “Mother and father’s room? You should take it”. She sounded honestly confused, and Jon wondered whether she had thought that he would take up the Lordship of Winterfell.

 

“I’m not a Stark”, replied Jon, incase that was indeed what she thought. There was another reason; Jon knew that Catelyn Stark had feared him somehow overthrowing her trueborn children and stealing their rights, and he had no intention of proving her correct even in death.

 

Sansa looked at him with a strange expression. “You are to me”, she said without hesitation, and with such sincerity infused in her voice that Jon could not doubt her words as simple politeness. He would never tell her how much those words had meant to him in that moment.

 

“You are the Lady of Winterfell, you deserve it. We are standing here because of you. The battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in and they came because of you”. Sansa was still looking at him like she wanted to argue the point further, but at the mention of the Vale her eyes dropped.

 

Jon decided that they needed to talk about the Vale at last, a topic that both of them had dutifully avoided. “You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons, and you trust him?”

 

Sansa smiled bitterly at that. “Only a fool would trust Littlefinger”, she said simply. The self loathing in her voice was clear. _She_ had been that fool and trusted the man when there was nobody else to trust. And she had paid for it dearly. “I should have told you about him and about the Knights of the Vale. I’m sorry”.

 

Her apology broke Jon’s heart. In all the years, no matter how awful she had been to him, Sansa had had never once apologized for her actions. Not even when they had reunited at the Wall and she begged his forgiveness for her past action, had Sansa actually said the words “I’m sorry”. This more than anything told Jon how much she had truly suffered, and how much Winterfell and the arrival of the Lords had taxed her as well.

 

Jon had taken a few stops closer to her then. “We need to trust each other. We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves, we have so many enemies now”. He clasped the side of her face gently with a gloved hand, and drew her close to kiss her forehead. He hoped that the gesture would tell Sansa that her brother would always love and protect her. When he drew back, Sansa favoured him with a small smile, and Jon prayed that she understood, and would not think that he had abandoned her when he left.

 

He turned to leave, but Sansa called him back. “A raven came from the citadel, a white raven. Winter is here”.

 

The absurdity of it all brought an insane smile to Jon’s face. Why was it that they, in all the generations of Starks since the founding of Winterfell, the ones that had to defend the realm against the Walkers? _Winter is coming,_ Eddard Stark had always sworn to his children, and indeed this time it would come for them with a vengeance.

 

“Well, father always promised didn’t he”, said Jon lightly, making Sansa smile again. With that he had left her, standing on the high battlements, to welcome the Lords into the great hall.

 

A roar of noise snapped Jon from his reverie, and to his annoyance he saw that some of the men had started drinking. Soon they would be reeling and boisterous, and the discussion would become that much more heated.

 

“I will accept no craven’s peace”, Lord Manderly was bellowing now, as he slammed his palm on the table with a loud bang. “Northmen are no cowards. We should march south immediately and avenge our fallen kin. With the power of the Vale, we have almost as many men as Robb Stark did when he left Winterfell”. He glared at the Valemen then, as if daring any of them to declare they wouldn’t support his war.

 

Manderly’s son and heir had been cut down at the Red Wedding, Jon knew, and the lord thirsted for Lannister and Frey blood. There was a loud roar of approval at his words, and many of his men beat at tables in fervored agreement. But no sooner than the Lord of White Harbor sat than Lord Tallhart stood.

 

“Even if the Vale stands with us, it will be a long and bloody war. The Iron Throne will not fall in a week, my lords, and unless we commit our entire power we have little chance at taking King’s Landing”. There was agreement to this as well, though some men appeared reluctant to admit the truth of his words. “We should prepare for winter, and when summer comes again we’ll be in a better position to negotiate or attack”.

 

“This winter could last years”, objected Lord Manderly. “The Southern alliance is broken, and the Tyrells have joined the Dornishmen in revolt as well. My lords, the Lannisters are the weakest they will ever be. If we strike now we could have over half of Westeros marching with us. Every day we delay gives Cersei Lannister more time to prepare for battle, or broker an alliance with Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.”

 

The argument resumed again, both sides refusing to yield.

 

 _There is sense in Lord Manderly’s words,_ thought Jon, _though he likely would have said anything to pursue his feud against the crown. The throne is weaker than it has even been, and the kingdom ripe for conquest_. Even Jon, who was weary of battle, felt the temptation to march on the Lannisters and seek vengeance for his fallen father and brother.

 

But it was a fool’s hope. As Lord Tallhart had said, the true winter was swiftly approaching and would destroy them if it caught them in a siege of a Southron castle. Besides, neither Jon nor Sansa wanted to seize lands in the South; in truth the North was larger than they needed and was alone half the realm.

 

 _If we did march, and somehow won, who then would sit the Iron Throne? Would we simply replace one tyrant with another?_ mused Jon silently. It was not worth the risk he thought firmly, but how could he persuade Manderly and his supporters of that?

 

Though he had opened this talk, Jon said very little afterwards, preferring to listen instead and watch the speakers carefully. Lord Eddard had sat him and his brother, Robb, through similar discussions when he was only a boy. Lady Catelyn Stark had bristled at that, but father insisted.

 

“A Northman is stubborn at the table, but in truth his wishes are usually simple: an accord that doesn’t dishonor himself or his House”, his Lord father had told them after a particularly difficult negotiation. “Before any real agreement can be made, there will be loud argument and a few Lords may even rise and threaten battle against each other. Yet in the end, if their liege commands respect, they will agree with the Lord of Winterfell and drink together on that very night, with all quarrels forgotten”.

 

From what he remembered, Eddard Stark seldom spoke as the men roared and cursed at each other, preferring to listen politely to each man. Only when the clamour had subsided somewhat would he rise and speak. In that way, his would be the last word, and the discussion would end on his terms. It was a good strategy, yet these men did not seem to tire of argument, and Jon had a gloomy feeling it may be hours more before he could end this.

 

Sansa sat to his left on the dias, her eyes following every speaker, and listening attentively. His sister had seemed to realise, as he had, that words were of no use here. She looked engrossed in the verbal melee that unfolded in front of them. If it weren’t for the fact that she played with her auburn hair as she listened, twisting the strands to curl around her finger, Jon might have believed it. But he remembered Sansa doing that very same thing in their youth in response to agitation, and smiled to himself. In truth his sister thought this squabble as pointless as he did.

 

Jon glanced at the side of the room, where Littlefinger was lazily leaning against the wall. Lord Baelish had an almost bored look about him, but his eyes were attentive and, like Sansa’s, they flicked rapidly to survey each and every speaker. He had stood silently for hours, but unlike Jon or even Sansa, Littlefinger actually seemed to be listening and remembering everything that was said.

 

 _What is he planning, and what does he want with us?_ wondered Jon darkly, looking at Littlefinger through the corner of his eye. Lord Baelish had once sat on the King’s small council, and now he ruled the Vale as Lord Protector. Jon doubted very much that a man as ambitious as Littlefinger would join their cause out of the goodness of his heart. _He stands in the halls of my father, having sold my sister to the Boltons, and yet I am powerless to rid ourselves of him._

 

For Littlefinger now spoke with the voice of the entire Vale and it was risky to turn him against them. But the thought of executing or simply banishing the man was tempting, and Jon especially did not like the subtle yet sly looks he gave Sansa. His time amongst rapers and murderers at the Wall had taught him the meaning of _that_ look, and Jon resolved that he would place more men around Sansa to guard her, while Brienne, her sworn sword, was absent.

 

The talk had now turned to the alliance with the free folk. Though plenty of Northmen still hated and feared the Wildlings, many unlikely friendships had been forged between the two peoples, especially between men who had fought together on the battlefield. Even the proudest Northern Lord could not deny that the free folk had fought and died bravely in the Battle for Winterfell and Jon hoped that in time the hostility might cease. Yet the Valemen were not convinced, and a few even had the gall to tell Jon that the Wildlings should be driven from the realm now that their purpose had been completed.

 

Lord Royce especially seemed to take offence at being seated beside the free folk in these talks. Jon remembered that Royce’s youngest son, Ser Waymar, had sworn himself to the Night’s Watch only to die in his first ranging. The Lord likely felt it a slight to the honour of his son to allow Wildlings past the Wall. Many times, and loudly, he had already proclaimed that the Vale could not support the alliance with the free folk. To Jon’s annoyance, the Lord had risen to his feet and was repeating himself, to ensure that every man had heard his words.

 

“You can’t expect the Knights of the Vale to side with Wildling invaders”, said Lord Royce loudly once again. Jon could almost feel the Northmen rolling their eyes, and many had restarted their drinking.  

 

Tormund spoke then, having been uncharacteristically quiet most of the negotiation. “We didn’t invade, we were invited”. His tone was relatively polite on the surface, but there was a dangerous undercurrent to it that Jon detected. The Wildling was quickly becoming angered by Royce, and Jon feared a brawl might occur between the men after the talks were concluded.

 

“Not by me”, said Lord Royce simply, refusing to even acknowledge Tormund with a glance, before he sat. There was a murmuring of agreement, and many Valemen nodded

 

Jon felt anger growing inside him and abruptly pushed himself to his feet, his wooden chair scraping the floor with a sharp screech. This folly had gone on long enough, and Jon determined that the time for actual negotiation and compromise had long since passed. Silence fell instantly as he rose, and every eye was now on him.

 

“The free folk, the Northerners and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together and _we won_ ”, he said in a loud voice that carried across the hall, stressing the last two words. Now was a time for solidarity amongst their peoples, not a time to tear themselves apart over old feuds. “My father always said, we find our true friends on the battlefield”.

 

Lord Cerwyn rose as well. Jon looked at him hopefully, wondering whether the Lord would support his words. Cerwyn was one of the few Lords that were of the opinion that war against the throne was pointless. But Jon was quickly disappointed.

 

“The Boltons are defeated, the war is over and winter has come”, said Cerwyn. “If the maesters are right, it will be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms”.

 

Jon almost groaned out loud; it was a foolish thing for the Lord to say. While the North was the hardest of the seven kingdoms to conquer, they were still surrounded by enemies. Only unity now could save them from the Iron Throne, which Jon did not doubt would soon send an army to reclaim the North from them.

 

“The war is _not_ over”, he said, overruling Cerwyn bluntly. “And I promise you friend, the true enemy will not wait out the storms. He brings the storm”. It was crucial they understood this, and realised that the threat beyond the Wall only grew stronger. A day would come when the entire power of the North would be needed to halt that dreadful horde, and even then Jon feared it would not be enough. For a moment he thought that his words had finally reached them, Cerwyn looked unsure and many Northmen had fallen silent with a hint of fear on their faces.

 

 _We must unite behind one person if we are to survive,_ thought Jon, _and for 8000 years that person has always been the Stark of Winterfell._ It occurred to Jon that he was standing, and at last he commanded the full attention of the high Lords. _This is the moment,_ he realised with a rush of anticipation. _If I proclaim her the Lady of Winterfell now, they will surely swear fealty to Sansa._ The words were on his lips, and he was mere seconds from saying them, but Lady Lyanna Mormont rose and the moment was lost. Jon was forced to sit again.

 

The Lady gave Jon a measured look, before turning to address Lord Manderly. “Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, my Lord, but you refused the call”, she said in a clear voice. The room grew very quiet, and there was shock written on the faces of many. Jon doubted that any man or even child had ever spoken to Manderly as plainly as the Lady had done. Heedless of the obvious tension she had caused, Lyanna Mormont turned to Lord Glover. “You swore allegiance to House Stark, but in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call”. Without waiting for an answer the Lady turned yet again. “And you, Lord Cerwyn. Your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton, and still you refused the call.

 

Having shamed three powerful Lords of the North, the Lady now turned to address the room at large. “But House Mormont remembers. The _North_ remembers. We know no King but the King in the North whose name is _Stark_ ”. A small smile grew on Jon’s face, and he sensed that beside him Sansa too was smiling. Pride filled them at the mention of their valiant brother Robb, whom the men called the Young Wolf. But at the Lady’s next words, Jon’s smile faltered and faded.

“I don’t care if he’s a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs in his vein. He’s my King, from this day until his last day.”

 

Shock was the first thing Jon felt, then incredulity. _The King in the North,_ he thought to himself. _The men will never agree to this, they would never support me over Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter._ He prepared himself for the gale of laughter that must surely follow such a proclamation, but to his surprise it never came and a few heads were nodding agreement, as Lady Lyanna seated herself.

 

Lord Manderly had now risen, a dark look on his face as he eyed the Lady. “Lady Mormont speaks harshly, and truly”, he said conceding to her words. The Lord exchanged looks with the Lady Mormont, as if to confirm no offence had been taken, before he started again. “My son died for Robb Stark, the young wolf. I didn’t think we’d find another king in my lifetime”. He now looked at Jon directly. “I didn’t commit my men to your cause, because I didn’t want more Manderlys dying for nothing. But I was wrong. Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding. He is the White Wolf”. Manderly drew his sword, a long blade made of iron dulled from countless battles. “ _The_ _King in the North_ ”, he proclaimed, before bending the knee and driving the point of his sword into the hard wooden floor.

 

Jon was aghast. Lord Manderly was the most powerful of all the assembled Lords and a proclamation by such a man could not be ignored. The men were murmuring to each other, many craning their necks to better see the events unfolding at the head of the hall. _I don’t want to be King,_ Jon wanted to tell the Lord, _all I want is to find peace in the South. Make Sansa Queen instead, by the gods crown anyone besides me._  Yet his tongue seemed to have turned to lead and the words would not come.

 

Lord Glover rose as well to address Jon, a strange look on his usually fierce face. “I did not fight beside you on the field and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong, and ask forgiveness”. His voice broke slightly on the last word, and though Jon had spent the last month mentally chastising Lord Glover for not aiding them in the battle, he could not help but feel pity for the remorse that the Lord was displaying in witness of all the men.

 

His tongue finally loosened, and the words came easier now. “There is nothing to forgive, my Lord”, said Jon softly, and he meant the words. _If I were him, perhaps I would not have marched either. What was Winterfell worth to him, compared to the safety of his family and people?_ Relief flooded the Lord’s face, as he had fully expected Jon to shame him in front of the assembly.

 

“There will be more fights to come”, announced Lord Glover. “House Glover will stand behind House Stark, as we have for a thousand years. And I will stand behind Jon Snow”. He unsheathed his sword, and held it gleaming in front of him. “ _The King in the North_ ”, he proclaimed before bending the knee beside Lord Manderly.

 

“King in the North”, shouted a man at the back of the hall in agreement. And then they were all rising; the Lords and Ladies, the highborn and lowborn, Northman and even Valeman. Swords were unsheathed, fists were pounded on the table and they roared with one voice. “THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!”

 

Jon rose slowly, his mind overthrown. _Please...please no,_ he wanted to beg the Lords. _I only wanted Sansa to rule, give this burden to her. Sansa_ , he realised with a pang, _what does she feel about this? Does she think that I’ve stolen her rights?_ With a hesitant look Jon turned to face his sister, expecting to see betrayal and hurt in her eyes.

 

Instead all he found was a proud smile, as she looked him straight in the eyes. _She is smiling,_ Jon realised through the daze that was his mind. _She is happy for me, genuinely happy._

 

Yet again, Jon turned to face the men, but found that the words had failed him. He ought to say something, to acknowledge and thank the Lords for their support, but he was paralysed as he stood. No-one cared, and they were still bellowing “THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!”. _These are my men now, all of them,_ he realised. _They will do as I command but they will look to me to defend them, and defend them I must, until the day I die._

 

His dream of visiting the south was over, Jon knew. At the front of the hall he stood, crowned King and with every eye on him, yet he felt strangely helpless and alone. _You will not be leaving Winterfell tonight, Jon Snow,_ a soft voice whispered into his ear and he shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. Some of you might question why this chapter is simply GOT 6x10 from Jon's perspective. When I started this fic, I wanted something that could believably create an illusion of canon, and the best way to do that I realised was to actually tie it into established scenes. I did not count on how difficult it would be however, or I might have reconsidered; the dialogue from the show interfered with my writing style and the chapter is a good 1000 words longer than I wanted it. Still, I hope you enjoy, and I promise that the next chapter will move the plot further than is already established.


	3. A Feast for Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell feasts in celebration, and Jon comes to terms with his duty.

 

 

The feast was a splendid affair, grander in truth than Jon had expected. Though the cooks could not have known that it would commemorate his ascension as King in the North, they had still prepared food worthy to be served in the courts of King’s Landing. Many dishes had been made for the occasion, and almost as soon as one had been devoured by the men, it was replaced by yet another. It was after all a celebration twofold; a revel to mark the liberation of the North from the Boltons and the crowning of its new King.

 

Despite the delicacies, Jon did not feel honoured and felt rather like a prisoner being force fed their last meal.  _ This is my lot in life,  _ he thought to himself,  _ and I must accept it soon.  _

 

But it was not acceptance that he felt, but rather an emptiness in his heart and a resignation that he would never now be free. As a boy he had dreamed of somehow becoming the Lord of Winterfell, but even then he had accepted the thought as unworthy and unlikely. But somehow the fulfilment of that childhood dream left a sour taste in his mouth.  __

 

The men were oblivious to his thoughts, and the stiffness in his words, and were happily gorging themselves on the vast amounts of food. Large pies of many meats there were, and savoury stews, and enough loaves of bread to feed a small army. Dotted on the tables were also entire roasted pigs and game fowl, skin glistening with a sheen of warm fat, sitting beside enormous platters of buttered parsnips, mushrooms, carrots and onions, and many more dishes besides. 

 

The wine was flowing, and many men drank long from pitchers of dark, strong ale. Yet all the food and drink paled in comparison to the main course, three whole roasted aurochs that spun lazily over the hot coals at the back of the hall, while three serving men basted it with spice, wine and herbs. 

 

Nobody knew where the Boltons had acquired an entire auroch, which were large cattle that roamed wild south of the Neck, but it was a rare treat for the Northmen who devoured it as if they would never taste one again. After the mains had been presented, then came the tarts, sweet soups, sugared fruits and pastries, of which Sansa especially enjoyed the lemon cakes. 

 

Jon tasted as much as he could of the meal, and complemented all the cooks generously. Yet in truth the food was tasteless to him, and he wanted to leave the hall which had grown uncomfortably warm.  _ I am now the King in the North,  _ he thought for the hundredth time, yet the words and the title still seemed foreign to him.

 

_ How can I rule these people?,  _ he wondered in dismay _. I am not my brother, it was Robb that was born to rule, and even he fell in the end. If the Young Wolf, with all his military prowess, could fail, what hope is there for the White Wolf?  _ That was the new name that the men now called him, in reference to Ghost. The direwolf had not yet presented itself to the feast, and was likely still fast asleep in his chambers. 

 

Beside him, Sansa sat picking at her food, and smiling as she watched the rabble of feasting men below them. Yet her eyes betrayed that something was wrong, and Jon was afraid to ask what it was.  _ She looked pleased when the men called for me to become King, what has changed now?  _ he wondered. What little conversation they had after the crowning was strained, and he wondered whether Sansa was angry at him. 

 

Before the feast commenced, each Lord had shuffled past the high table to offer words of congratulations to their new King, and yet more oaths of loyalty.

 

“It was well deserved, Your Grace”, said Lord Manderly firmly when Jon had thanked him for the words of support. “The men admire you, and will do whatever you command. There is no man more suited to be King”. 

 

Lord Glover had said things that were similar as well. “You waged battle against an army twice the size of your own, and still won. Aye, a true Northman you are, to fight honourably to the bitter end, despite the odds, and it is something that the men respect. The gods were truly with you on that field, Your Grace, when you won the Battle for the North.  

 

_ No my Lords,  _ Jon wanted to tell them,  _ it was Sansa and her alliance with the Vale that won us the battle. If not for her, I would have sent us all to our graves.  _ But it was no use telling the Lords this, Jon had been saying the words since the end of the battle yet no-one seemed to care, and Sansa’s victory was always credited to him somehow.  _ Is this why Sansa is angry at me?,  _ he wondered.  _ Afterall she has been forced to sit at my side and listen as the Lords belittle her triumph and give it to me.  _

 

It was something that Lord Baelish had not missed when it was his turn to speak with him. Sansa had stiffened at his approach, and Jon had put a reassuring hand over hers, hidden under the table. He had felt her fear in the Lord’s approach, in the way that she had gripped his fingers as if they were a lifeline, and wondered at that.

 

Very little now frightened his sister, who had watched their father die, been tormented by Ramsay Bolton and ridden with fierce Wildling warriors. Yet for all her projected composure, she seemed wary of Littlefinger. Jon stroked the back of her hand reassuringly with his thumb, his eyes fixed on Lord Baelish.

 

“Your Grace”, Littlefinger had said smoothly, giving Jon a half bow. “I must compliment you on your feats on the battlefield. Why I keep hearing tales of your bravery, which alone must have been enough to dishearten even the stoutest Bolton man! I daresay that your half-sister summoning the Vale might not even have been necessary”, he finished with a crooked smile aimed at Sansa, who looked coolly back at him. Jon was not amused, nor did he miss the hidden meaning behind Baelish’s words.  _ You are only a stupid boy and you would have lost the battle if not for me. Do not forget it.   _

 

Jon considered his words carefully, smiling back at Littlefinger as if the truth of the words were lost on him. This verbal duel was not his game, and he could not afford to outright offend Baelish. “Thank you, my lord, but you sell yourself short. The Valemen were invaluable on the field, and I suspect they will be loyal and brave allies in the wars to come”. Littlefinger would not miss the meaning:  _ your men are loyal to us now and you have no power here.  _

 

“The wars to come”, repeated Littlefinger slowly, measuring each word. “It will be an extended campaign for sure, and we are beset by enemies. Is Your Grace sure that we can win against the Iron Throne?” Baelish’s tone was not loud yet his voice carried, and the entire hall heard. 

 

_ There is a trap here,  _ Jon had thought. Yet he was lost for words, for in truth he did not truly believe that they could win outright, against the Throne or against the Walkers. He dared not speak, for fear that Littlefinger would hear his uncertainty. 

 

Sansa had come to his rescue then. She eyed Littlefinger evenly, before speaking in an equally measured voice that every man could hear. “My brother took Winterfell despite facing a far larger and better prepared host of men. In this realm nothing is certain except winter, and winter has come. The Throne has more men than us, that is true, but the King in the North has conquered death itself. How then could we fail?”  

 

The hall erupted in cheers at that, and many men nodded to her words with large grins, their minds likely already turned to the prospect of conquest in the South. Littlefinger had not responded, but bowed with a smile before withdrawing to allow another Lord to speak with Jon.

 

But since then, Sansa had not been herself. She smiled politely and laughed at the jokes that the Lords had made, but her eyes were troubled and she had held Jon’s hand through the entirety of that session, though she had never once looked at him. In truth Jon had needed the contact more than she did. He was more afraid than he cared to admit and it comforted him to know that there was someone else that shared his worries. 

 

_ Fear is good emotion,  _ Jon had thought to himself,  _ it means that we are, at least, not stupid.  _

 

Sansa’s mood did not extend to the mob that feasted below them. The ale had worked its magic, and men who had loudly cursed each other as cravens in the preceding negotiations, now sat together in a drunken stupor, weaving tales of their prowess on the battlefield. A few had taken ahold of a serving wench, and their hands were lustily exploring down the woman’s bodice. Even the Valemen seemed more pleasant this evening, laughing loudly as they ate.

 

In a corner, Tormund and his Wildlings were singing loudly, their voice echoing off the ancient timbers of the roof. To Jon’s surprise there were many Northmen sitting with them as well, bellowing along to the song, and clashing pitchers of ale together as they sung. 

 

_ “A bear there was, a bear, A BEAR! All black and brown and covered in hair! ...” _

 

Jon almost laughed at that. Tormund was more impressed by Southern customs than he would admit, or perhaps his fondness simply extended to the plentiful food, drink and bawdy song. Indeed, the Wildlings were having a merry time, which was a small wonder considering they had run in terror from the Walkers for years and never seen so much to eat, hoarded in one place. 

 

_ This is a good sign,  _ thought Jon.  _ The Wildlings and Northmen must learn to trust each other if we are to survive. Tormund is the bridge to that gap, he is more a Northman than he realises. _

 

After the crowning, Tormund had taken Jon aside. The large man had looked at him up and down, before smiling widely. “The bastard who became a King. Hah, the singers will love that”. He gave Jon a spine breaking slap to the back. “Just don’t expect me to bow and suck your dick like the rest of these Southern twats,  _ Your Grace”.  _ Tormund had bellowed with laughter at his own joke, yet Jon was not even able to force a smile. “What’s wrong boy, you look half a corpse”.

 

“It’s nothing, I’m just getting used to this new title” Jon had said, but the lie had sounded flat even to him. In truth, hearing Tormund call him “Your Grace” even in joke, had sent a knife through his heart. It had been impossible to ignore the reality of the situation then.  _ I didn’t want this, _ he wanted to bellow.  _ But of course what I want ceased to matter a long time ago. _

 

Tormund seemed to understand this and his voice had softened then. “Come now boy, you’re a King and this is no time for self pity”. He sighed deeply, “King Crow you are now, just like Mance. He was a good King in the short time he ruled the free folk. The two of you were more alike than you knew, both brave and kind”. Tormund now gave Jon a sharp look, “do you know what kindness gets you in this world, lad? A pyre to be roasted alive in and ten daggers to the heart, as both of you learned. No boy, you are a King now, and Kings cannot mope”.  

 

_ He has the right of it,  _ Jon had thought.  _ For good or ill, I am now the rule of the North. And I will not fail in my duty.  _ Still, Jon had felt nothing but tired, and desired simply for an end to this draining day so that he might crawl into bed and hope for a dreamless sleep.

 

Tormund was now finishing his song, and the room exploded into cheers at his last words. Many men drank deeply and called for another one. The Wildling was happy to oblige and launched into a tune about Bael the Bard, the infamous King beyond the Wall who had in times long past stolen a daughter of Winterfell and sired a son by her. In that way, had the blood of the Starks forever been mixed with that of the free folk. 

 

It was growing darker outside and so Jon ordered the servants to light the braziers. Winterfell’s great hall had three enormous overhanging candelabra, whose iron wrought rings held 50 candles each. When lit, the entire room was bathed in a cheery golden light. 

 

“It is just like when King Robert visited”, Jon said to Sansa. “The hall looks much the same, yet the people feasting are all different”. It was true enough, a few of the Lords that were present had been there that day, yet the vast majority were strangers to their hall.

 

Sansa gave him a queer look. “I suppose you’re right”, she said softly, her voice almost drowned in the raucous laughter of the men. She looked down, at her plate of food that was barely touched. “I keep thinking of the people that will never return here. Mother, father, Robb and even Rickon”. Her voice broke slightly on the last word, Rickon’s death was still a raw unhealed wound in their hearts.

 

Jon nodded sadly, it had been on his mind as well. “Think of the living instead. All these men should be dead, yet they live and feast in this hall because of you. And for now at least, we are safe from attack”. Sansa looked at him dejectedly. She wanted to believe his words, Jon knew, but the reality was far less hopeful than he made out. The feast for King Robert had been magical for Sansa, he remembered.  _ She was going to be a Queen, but all they did was cast her down and crush her dreams. Perhaps she will never be able to hope again. _

 

“What is wrong, Sansa?” he asked her in a low tone. “You have been quiet for a while now. Tell me what is troubling you so I can help.” 

 

Her eyes flicked to his, before turning away. “It is nothing to trouble yourself with, Your Grace”, she said simply.

 

It felt as though she had slapped him, and indeed Jon would rather that she had. Above all the others, Sansa should have known how much he hated that title of “Your Grace”. To use it when addressing him implied that he was less a brother to her and more a King. Anger rose in him, and for the first time he had the urge to truly shout at his sister.

 

“If my lady would like to take the crown, she would be most welcome to it”, Jon said slowly but with icy courtesy, suppressing his temper. “Perhaps when Queen, she would be more inclined to tell her brother what troubles her. Or perhaps not; bastards are after all not true brothers to be confided in”. 

 

The hurt in his voice was plain even to him, and Sansa gave him a startled look, her face filling quickly with remorse. “I didn’t mean it like that Jon …” she started in a voice that shook with regret. But Jon did not want to hear the apology, and cut her off.

 

“Pray excuse me, I find that I am indisposed tonight”, he said, abruptly standing and walking into the feasting crowd. No sooner had he left the high table than he felt an overwhelming guilt.  _ Now I have upset Sansa as well,  _ he thought tiredly.  _ Damn the Lords, and damn the men for naming me King. And damn the She Bear for starting it, how hard could it have been for the Lady to declare for Sansa instead? _

 

Jon’s aimless walk had sent him to the back of the hall, away from Sansa’s gaze and where the men were the drunkest and bawdiest. Ser Davos sat alone in the far corner, to the side of a large group of revellers, humming tunelessly to a ribald drinking song that one of Lord Tallharts men was leading. Yet the Onion Knight did not appear to be in a mirthful mood, and Jon reminded himself that the man was still mourning the death of the Princess Shireen. 

 

_ What does it feel like, losing a child that was as good as your daughter? _ , he wondered.  _ Does it feel as bad as losing a father and two brothers, or worse? _

 

“M’lord! Come, sit and drink with me”, said Ser Davos, rising to greet him. It was clear that the man had been drinking heavily, yet while his eyes were red rimmed, his voice was still clear. Davos had been raised in flea bottom, the slum of King’s Landing. It would take a far stronger brew to truly get him drunk.     

 

Jon sat with the knight, accepting a pitcher of ale, and drank deeply until his his own eyes began to water. For a long while, neither man said anything, yet Jon appreciated the silence which was peaceful.

 

“I can’t do this Ser”, Jon told Davos simply and without preamble. “I don’t know the first thing about being King. How then am I supposed to rule these people?”

 

Davos looked at him, and Jon was surprised to see a wry amusement in the older man’s eyes. “You didn’t know how to lead the Watch either, yet you led them well. Your heart is good m’lord, trust it and you will make the right decision more often than not”. The floor creaked as Jon reclined back on his chair with a deep sigh, and Davos placed a companionable hand on his shoulder. 

 

There was a stirring at the front of the hall and Jon stood to better see what was occurring. Men were calling loudly to each other and suddenly the long tables were being pushed to the walls, all food forgotten. A wide, empty area had quickly formed in the centre of the hall. A Hornwood man struck a lively tune on his lute and other minstrels joined him; with harp, pipe and drum.

 

Lord Tallhart started the dance by grabbing a passing serving girl and pulling her into a tight, elegant spin, as she giggled loudly. Many other men soon joined him, each asking the nearest woman for her favour. Lord Manderly was dancing with another servant and Lady Mormont moved gracefully, partnered with a slender but well built Wildling man. Even Lord Royce had joined the fray, dancing smoothly with a woman from the White Harbour retinue. 

 

Jon remembered similar dances from feasts in his youth, yet seldom did he actually participate in those unless it was demanded of him by either Arya or his Lord Father. He prefered rather to watch, and clap to the music. That was what he did now, smiling as Tormund took ahold of two women, and moved with them both. One of the musicians, a tall boy of fourteen years, happened to glance at the back of the hall and caught Jon’s eye. He abruptly stopped playing and climbed on a stool to rise over the crowd. “Come now lads, we have forgotten our King!”, he exclaimed in a loud voice.

 

Eyes turned turned to Jon and the hall exploded with a deafening roar of “KING IN THE NORTH!”. Davos had risen behind him, and gave Jon a small push forwards. Suddenly there were many hands on him, gently and not so gently pulling him forward into the moving throng.  _ I can’t remember how to dance,  _ he thought panicked, before he was roughly pushed into the arms of a Glover girl.

 

It was not as bad he had expected. The women that partnered with him seemed to know what they were doing, even if he didn’t. All he need to do in the end was allow them to lead and follow the speed of the music. Jon could feel the eyes behind him, and hoped he didn’t look too much of a fool to the Lords. Out of respect, a circle had formed around him in the centre of the room, and no reveler danced near him and his current partner. For this Jon was thankful as it was difficult enough trying not to trip when beside one person. In the end he danced with almost half the women present, and every one of them had seemed eager at the chance to partner him. 

 

_ A far cry this is, compared to the dances when I was younger,  _ Jon thought ruefully. Back then few women would have partnered with him willingly, preferring rather his brother Robb or even Theon Greyjoy, their ward. Around the time he was dancing with the same Tallhart girl for the second time, Jon happened to look at the high table. 

 

Sansa had not moved from her seat, and Jon wondered at this. His sister loved to dance, and she was very skilled at it. He could still remember her twirling gracefully with some minor Lordling or another, every eye on her, while men queued in the back for their turn. As he watched now, a Valeman walked up to the dias and asked her favour, but Sansa refused him politely with a kind smile. The man looked as if he wanted to argue the point further, yet a low growl at Sansa’s feet quickly dissuaded him, and Jon saw Ghost curled beneath the table. The direwolf had finally bestirred itself from the tower chambers, and one of Sansa’s hands were buried in his thick white fur.

 

The guilt at upsetting Sansa returned to Jon, multiplied ten fold. He had not intended to spoil her evening to the point where she had even lost her taste for dance. Yet as he watched the Valeman, Jon saw him return to a small contingent of his own countrymen, of which included Littlefinger. Lord Baelish had been watching that exchange as well, and he smiled as the man returned looking bashful. 

 

_ She is afraid to dance,  _ Jon realised with a pang.  _ She knows that if she takes to the floor, at some point she will be forced to partner with Littlefinger.  _ Anger coursed through him, though he did not let it show to avoid frightening his partner. Yet at the conclusion of that song, he broke off abruptly and strode for the high table. 

 

Sansa was not even looking up when he arrived. “I’m sorry Ser, I’m feeling rather poorly today. Perhaps ask another to dance”, she began mistakenly, her eyes fixed on her half eaten food which had long since become cold. Ghost nudged her leg, and she looked up, finally realising who was in front of her. 

 

“Spare me the rebuttals Jon, you’ve already made your point clear”, Sansa said tiredly, barely meeting his eyes.

 

Jon forced a smile at that. “Actually I was wondering if my lady would like to dance”.

 

Anger flash in her eyes, and she fixed Jon with a glare. “Perhaps the lady would _ not  _ like to dance. As she has been telling most of the men in this room for half the night”. Her refusal was expected, especially as Jon had not left her on the best of terms.

 

“That's true no doubt”, said Jon, drawing on the meager verbal skills he had used only that morning, to convince her. “But perhaps you will honour your brother with one dance. He has after all sworn to never let another man touch you, which may mean that he will be the only partner you have tonight. And he knows how much you love to dance”. The words were casually delivered, yet the meaning was plain.

 

Sansa looked unsure, as if her desire to dance was warring with her desire to storm away from Jon. “I would like that”, she said stiffly, “if my brother truly is unwilling to permit any other to dance with me. But only one dance”. Jon nodded and extended his hand to her. For a moment he thought that she might not take it, but in the end she did. 

 

_ I will not let you be scared in our own home,  _ thought Jon fiercely as he led her to the floor, and the large circle that was still present. There was a round of loud cheering as the men welcomed the Lady Stark into the fray, and the crowd parted like a hot knife through butter to allow them through. The bards started a new tune in her honour, a lighter melody with less emphasis on the drums and more on the harp.

 

She was just as skilled as he remembered at dancing, and a far better lead than any of the other women. Jon soon forgot about the likelihood of tripping and, for the first time at that feast, he began to enjoy himself. He had of course danced with Sansa before, yet their partnering had been a formality and pleasant for neither of them. Yet now it was different. They spun rapidly to the faster songs and careened gently to the slower ones. Men had been waiting for their turn with her, yet by the third song it became apparent that Jon would not surrender her and no man had the courage to interrupt their King. 

 

Slowly the life came back into Sansa’s eyes and a real smile finally touched her face, which had grown flushed from the dancing. Yet though her breath now came raggedly, she refused to stop and Jon ordered the music slowed down so that she could catch her breath. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, atop the furs of his cloak which she had gifted him. Jon held her close, letting her lean on him as they swayed softly to the slower song. “Thank you”, she whispered softly, her eyes closed, but he heard all the same and gave her soft squeeze. 

 

_ It could have been like this since the beginning,  _ thought Jon sadly.  _ If Lady Catelyn had not raised her to hate me, I could truly have been a brother to her.  _ Despite her mother’s efforts, Sansa had not hated him in truth, yet they had never had an easy relationship either which Jon was regretting now as much as she did.  _ It is not yet too late, we can make up for lost time. _

 

He surveyed the crowd around them and saw that many were tiring as well, the feast would likely conclude soon. Of the many people that looked at them, only one gaze held his attention. Littlefinger was looking at them both, smiling slightly yet his eyes were ice cold.  _ The look of an enemy, _ Jon thought.

 

The conclusion of that final song indeed marked the end of the feast. Jon told Sansa to retire, and he personally oversaw the farewell of the guests, before giving instruction for the restoration of the hall back to its original condition. 

 

Only then did he allow himself to retire, and on the way to his room he passed Sansa’s chambers. Jon hesitated outside the door; he had mended things between him and Sansa after the feast, and he was reluctant to disrupt the fragility of this new peace. Yet he knocked softly on the door anyway, and Sansa answered. His sister had taken off her wolf cloak, which somehow made her look more vulnerable than Jon was used to. She gave him a warm smile and seated herself on the edge of the bed, after he entered. 

 

Jon stood in the doorway, saying nothing, but then he strode slowly to sit beside Sansa. “I never wanted the crown, you have to know that”, he said softly, not meeting her eyes. “I’m no usurper and Winterfell was and still is yours. Say the word and I’ll declare you Queen in the North instead of me”.

 

For a long moment Sansa didn’t answer. Jon wondered whether she was considering his offer, but without looking at her directly it was hard to say. “I didn’t want to rule Jon, all I ever wanted was our home back”, she said sighing deeply. “I’m happy for you, truly, I am. You will be a good King, better even than Robb”. 

 

She took his hand and caressed it gently, smiling with that same proud look she had given him at the crowning. Jon recognised the truth in her words - she truly did not grudge him the crown - yet her eyes were tinged with sadness as she said them. Though honest, her words brought him no joy and, in truth, a part of him had prayed silently for Sansa to assert her claim, so that he might set the crown aside. However it seemed that the mantle of King was finally unavoidable.

 

He desperately wanted to question her further, perhaps even beg that she reconsider, yet instinct told him that he had pushed her far enough that night. Jon rose and made his way to the door, Sansa following him. But before he left, he turned to face her again. “Will you help me govern the North, Sansa? You know that I have no experience in these things, and your advice would be invaluable.”

 

Sansa looked at him questioningly. “You don’t need me. Your Lords can give you counsel just as well as I can, and they are loyal enough that you can trust them, I think”.

 

“I trust you” said Jon simply, leaving his thoughts unsaid.  _ With snakes like Littlefinger in our hall, can anyone else truly be trusted? Even our Bannermen think only of profiting themselves, and what must be done requires sacrifice.  _ A small smile formed on Sansa’s face as he said this, and she nodded in promise.

 

“One more thing, Sansa”, Jon said before he left her room for his own chambers, to search for the sleep that he knew would not come tonight. “Never call me ‘ _Your Grace’_ again. I am not your King”.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this chapter, as always comments and criticism are always appreciated.


	4. King's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon faces decisions and receives dire news

The riders were gathering in the courtyard, shivering in the frigid air, as they mounted for the long ride North. Stable boys ran around them, saddling the horses and feeding them from handfuls of hay and oats.

 

A thousand strong they numbered, gathered from across the North to serve their King, yet very few men looked eager for the ordeal to come: the journey to the Wall, which would be their home as they defended it from the terrors beyond. Though none were required to don the black cloak and join the Night’s Watch, it still touched their pride to be sent to the edge of the world to sit out the wars to come.

 

Jon could understand their hesitation; many men did not believe in the threat of the Walkers and perhaps thought their King was being overly cautious. Yet while they had not seen the army of the dead, he had, and deemed that the Wall must be defended at all costs. But his Lords were not pleased, and many had argued that a thousand men were too many to commit in these times of conflict.

 

“The strength of the North is already lessened, Your Grace. We must prepare for attack from the Throne, and every man will be needed when it comes”, Lord Manderly had argued when Jon had broached the subject with the bannermen.

 

Lord Tallhart agreed with him. “A thousand men is too many, and even a hundred might be more than we can spare. There is too much risk in weakening ourselves. If your father had lived he might have agreed with us”.

 

“If my father had seen what I have seen, he would have sent the entire power of the North to the Wall, not just a thousand”, Jon had countered sharply. “The Throne is unlikely to launch a large scale attack on the North with winter having come. We must bolster the Watch, my Lords, but if the need comes, you have my word that I will recall them”.

 

Both Manderly and Tallhart had subsided immediately at that, yet Jon knew that they were unhappy, which would mean that their men would be discontent as well. The situation was delicate, he had been King for only a short time and it was risky to test his power, especially when he needed the loyalty of the Lords to maintain unity in the North. Yet the need of the Wall was dire and, displeased Lords or not, it must be defended.

 

Jon could not fault the Lords for being wary of losing men as, only a few days prior, a raven had come from King’s Landing, carrying a letter with the lion seal of Cersei Lannister, who had recently been crowned Queen of Westeros.

 

_The North belongs to the Iron Throne, as it has for the last three hundred years. Set aside your crown and bend the knee, bastard, and only your whore sister need die. Defy me, and I will take what is mine by force, and you will watch the entire North burn before you die screaming._

 

Sansa’s eyes had darkened when he had shown her the letter, and her small body had shook slightly when reading it. Jon had wondered whether she was scared, but when Sansa finally looked up, there was only anger in her eyes. “The North is _ours,_ and the Queen doesn’t have half the men she needs to take it. Send a raven back to tell her that”.

 

Her words were true enough. Cersei Lannister had more men at her command, yet men alone could not conquer the entire North. Any army that desired entry into its frozen heartland would first need to march through the Neck, a narrow strip of land that contained the only overland passage into Stark territory. It was a task made near impossible by the vast bogs filled with toxic water that were defended by House Reed. Lord Howland Reed had once been a close friend of Eddard Stark, so Jon had sent riders to treat with him and request that the Lord guard the entryway from assault.

 

Still, though the defences of the North were formidable, Jon was not so sure that they would be easily able to resist attack if it came. _Is this the right choice?_ he wondered, and not for the first time. _A thousand men could well be the difference between victory and defeat when the Lannisters attacks. Am I sending them the wrong direction?_ But the Wall was undermanned, and should the Night King pass into Westeros, he would be a far greater threat than the Throne.

 

So the commands had been sent, and a host was summoned to gather at Winterfell. Many men had come with a degree of reluctance, yet they had come all the same, honouring their oaths to their new King.

 

Jon stood now with Sansa, on a balcony of the castle, watching the host prepare itself for the journey. It had started to snow lightly, and many men had a light coating of white on their hair. _A grand thing it would be if they rode into a blizzard,_ Jon mused ruefully. Yet the scene below now saddened him as well. Robb too had snow in his hair, when Jon had said farewell to him and that fateful day had been the last time he had seen his brother.

 

A Knight of the Vale mounted his horse as he called loudly for his squire, and the boy ran to give the man his freshly sharpened sword. It had been difficult to convince them to ride as Lord Royce had been outright dismissive of sending men to the Wall, when Jon had asked him. Likely the Lord thought it a task too menial for his Knights.

 

“We were summoned to aid you in taking Winterfell, Your Grace, and we have done that. But I cannot ask my men to serve at the Wall, and many will want to return home now that the fighting is over”, Lord Royce had said haughtily. The Vale was allied with the North, yet Jon had no command over Royce and his men, who were loyal only to Robin Arryn, the boy Lord of the Eyrie.

Yet Jon needed the Valemen to ride as well, their continued presence in Winterfell gave Littlefinger too much influence and the castle didn’t have enough food to support their entire host indefinitely.

 

“We understand your hesitation, my lord”, Sansa had responded, giving Jon a sharp look before smiling warmly at the man. “The Knights of the Vale have already been of great service to us, and it is reasonable that they would wish to head home again”. But Sansa’s face had fallen then, her smile replaced by a look of worry. “Our Northmen can defend the Wall against what resides beyond, yet I fear for them. If even the Wildlings were driven from their lands, the situation might be more that mere men can handle. Still, while we did not ask that the men endanger themselves, many of the bravest and most honourable have gathered anyway. Perhaps it will be enough”.

 

The Lord had visibly puffed himself up at that, and Jon would have smiled if he could. The mere mention of bravery and honour was enough to capture the attention of the man, and his pride would not allow his countrymen to seem less valiant than a Northman. But he felt a tinge of unease as well. _When did Sansa become so good at mummery,_ Jon wondered.

 

“There is little to nothing that a Knight of the Vale cannot handle”, Lord Royce had said immediately. “If the Northmen fear to man the Wall, the Vale can be of aid. Let me talk to my men, and see if any are willing to ride”. Jon frowned at the Lord’s assumption of cowardice, but had let the comment pass unremarked. After that, there had been no shortage of volunteers from the Valemen, who now numbered two hundred strong in the riding party.

 

 _Tell a Valeman that a task will win him honour and he will jump at the opportunity,_ Jon had thought wryly. It was an old joke that he had once heard the servants say, yet it appeared to be no less true. Lord Royce loved to disagree with much that he said, but the Lord could not resist a chance for his men to win renown.

 

But Sansa had not been amused, and had taken him aside afterwards. “You cannot afford to show weakness to a man like Lord Royce. What would you have done if he had outright refused your request?”

 

“Weakness?”, asked Jon annoyed. “I simply asked him for aid, but he was too proud to even consider. Do I have to promise him glory every time we need his Valemen to do anything?”

 

“Lord Royce is not a Northerner, Jon, remember that”, Sansa said with a touch of annoyance herself. “He is not sworn to you and so before you start asking him favours you must win his respect. Otherwise the next time he will deny you, which will weaken your authority”.

 

She was right, but Jon did not want to admit it. For the past few days it seemed that all he had done was try and win favour with the Lords. Yet the smiles, gilded words and courtesies that Sansa had instructed him in were rubbing him raw, and Jon longed for the day when their guests left the castle and he could stop pretending to be a King. “I’ll try and win him over, Sansa”, he had promised her, though unhappily.

 

The riders were now largely ready, and most were now aimlessly waiting for their companions to finish. A large part of the host were Tallhart men, with a decent amount of Manderly and Glover men as well. _Has Lord Tallhart finally realised in the true threat beyond the Wall,_ Jon wondered, _or does he send men because he is simply eager to prove loyalty?_ Some of the men occasionally looked at Jon, though many averted their gaze when he met their eyes.

 

“They are waiting for you”, said Sansa softly, “say something that they will remember on their journey. Give them hope”. Her warm breath tickled his ear as she leaned in towards him.

 

 _Hope?,_ wondered Jon. _There is nothing hopeful about this situation. I am sending them to face the greatest threat Westeros has faced in 8000 years, while I sit idly at Winterfell like a coward. If any of them could truly understand what they have committed to, they would be terrified._ But he dare not say that as many of the men were already reluctant to ride, and it would be dangerous now to dishearten them.

 

Jon stepped forwards and gave a low whistle. A white streak raced across the courtyard, nearly invisible if not for the flash of red eyes on the snow, and mere seconds later Ghost was at his feet. The direwolf threw back its head and howled, long and loud. A hush fell upon the yard, and every eye turned to Jon.

 

“I know that many of you think the Walkers are nothing more than a children’s tale”, started Jon softly, yet in the absolute silence every man heard him. “A few years ago I would have said the same thing. But with my own eyes, I have seen the threat beyond the Wall, and it is as real as the direwolf before you”. Several men looked at Ghost, before turning away shivering. “It is not an easy task that you are undertaking, but it is an important one, for if the Wall falls, the North will fall with it. You have committed to a task that I once did, but can no longer do. Go now and defend our lands, in the knowledge that my gratitude is bestowed on you forever”.

 

“King in the North” shouted a Glover man, and the yard filled with cheers as the men drew their swords and waved them in salute to their King. Ghost howled again, yet this time the sound was less terrible and and was somehow uplifting. While many of the men looked stirred, now suddenly eager to ride and be of service to their King, Jon felt hollow inside. His words had been sincere and were come from the heart, yet when said they had sounded to him like that of a stranger's.

 

 _Has the Kingship changed me so quickly,_ he wondered. _I do not even feel like the same person I was before the crowning. Is that naive boy, who truly believed that he could leave for the South, gone already?_ When he turned around Sansa was smiling at him with approval, yet beyond her a few minor Lords were eying the host with a stony composure. _They still do not approve of sending the men,_ thought Jon tiredly. _I will have to placate them later._

 

It took an hour for the entire host to move through the castle walls, before exiting the Winter town. Jon watched the column from the battlements, long after they had faded slowly into the distance, wondering if he would see any man of them again. There were brave and honourable men in that party, but he wondered whether they would be enough. _Am I sending too many men, as the Lords tell me, or too few?_ But there was nothing more that he could do, and abruptly he turned around and walked back into the yard.

 

With so many Valemen riding in the host, the castle seemed strangely quiet. However there were still plenty of guests, as none of the principal Lords had yet left them. Now that the host had left them, the yard was filling with the sounds of men training their swordplay, to the amusement of those that watched them. A few periodically looked up at the high balcony, where a few Lords still sat watching their men.

 

The majority of looks seemed to be aimed at Sansa, who was quietly talking to Lord Glover. _Most likely some of the men think they can impress her and win her hand by marriage,_ thought Jon with irritation. _A few years ago, it might not even have been such an absurd hope._ But, to his satisfaction, it seemed that Sansa was completely disinterested in the melee below her, and didn’t so much as glance at the combatants.

 

Two Valemen were dueling now, in full armour, their swords clanging as they battered each other with a flurry of blows.

 

 _They fight well,_ thought Jon, _but their strikes are too pretty and their parries are too gallant._ Both men were Knights yet were also younger sons of minor Lords, so Jon doubted they had been anointed for their fighting prowess.

 

A thought occurred to him, and a small smile touched his face. Jon walked slowly down the yard, unsheathing Longclaw as he went. It had been too long since he had properly trained with his men, and now was a good time as any. The combatants abruptly broke off at his approach, eying the gleaming sword with apprehension. “Your Grace”, said one of the Knights respectfully, and both of them bowed their heads.

 

“I was wondering if one of you men would like to duel with me”, said Jon casually. “It has been a long time since I’ve trained, and I fear that my skill is turning to rust”. He did not miss the look that passed between them, which was half derisive and half eager to beat the Northern King into the ground. _Good,_ he thought, _no doubt they think that a Knight such as they, will have no trouble defeating me._

 

“I would be honoured, my Lord, but you do not wear any armour so might be hurt badly if we fought”, said one of the men. His white shield bore the image of three black ravens in flight, each holding a red heart, the sigil of House Corbray. Others were gathering around them to better see what was happening, and some smiled at his words.

 

Jon smiled thinly as well. _I do not need armour to beat you,_ he thought but what he said instead was: “I wore this leather cuirass in the battle, Ser. I think it will be adequate”. The man accepted that without question, and the others moved aside to give the two of them room to fight. The Corbray Knight shot his companions a cocksure smile, before suddenly swinging his sword to engage Jon.

 

The Knight was strong, Jon had to admit, yet not half as skilled as he thought he was. Blade struck at blade with a piercing screech, yet though the man rained blow after blow at him, Jon was too quick and Longclaw deflected each strike as they came. But the Corbray Knight still had the advantage with armour and barrelled into Jon, who would have been knocked over had he not hastily side-stepped.

 

Yet that same armour was tiring the Knight, and his shield came up slower each time and his parries became more and more sluggish. Seeing this, Jon focused more on evasion, striking back at the man only when his defence was lowered. He was rewarded with sharp grunts of pain, as Longclaw found its mark against the more thinly protected areas. Even against armour, Valyrian steel was formidable, and left dents in the otherwise smooth metal. At last Jon decided to end the contest, and finished the man with a powerful blow to the head which echoed hollow in his helmet, and sent him sprawling on the floor.    

 

A gale of laughter rose from the Northmen, and many of the Southerners were hiding smiles. Jon looked up to see Sansa laughing as well, as the knight was helped to his feet looking dazed. _She is even more beautiful when she laughs,_ Jon thought as their eyes met and she smiled at him. Jon surveyed the crowd for another to duel with, in truth he would fight every man present if meant that Sansa kept laughing.

 

One person who was not smiling was Lord Royce, who unlike the other Lords was not seated in the balcony and was standing with his men in the yard. He was looking at the Corbray man with thinly disguised contempt, as if he couldn’t believe that one of his Knights could lose to a Northerner.

 

Jon remembered what Sansa had told him about winning the Lord’s respect, and looked at him with speculation. All the politeness in the world would not make headway against a man as proud as Royce, but the Lord was a martial man and perhaps a contest might win his favour.

 

Making his decision, Jon walked to Royce and his men. “My Lord, would you honour me with a duel?”, he asked politely.

 

Lord Royce’s face betrayed no emotion as he looked at Jon, yet his men grinned with anticipation at Jon’s words. Whether they were eager to see their Lord or the King in the North be knocked down, Jon could not say. The Lord rose wordlessly, unsheathing his sword, and an expectant silence fell in the yard. “Of Course, Your Grace”, he said lowly, yet his eyes had a dismissive edge to them.

 

When their blades met for that first strike, Jon knew immediately that the fight would be far more difficult than the last. He had seen Lord Royce fight only once, when he had escorted his son to the Wall, and had stayed as guest in Winterfell. Back then Royce had dueled with Lord Eddard, and defeated him despite the latter wielding the Stark ancestral greatsword, Ice. _Any man who could defeat father is likely a formidable warrior,_ Jon thought as he parried another blow from the Lord.

 

While Lord Royce was older than Jon, they were equally matched in strength, and though Jon was faster the Lord had far more experience in swordplay and was able to predict a great many of his attacks. The duel went on, and watchers now started to cheer as their swords crossed yet again with a sharp screech, but neither man was able to get close enough and end the duel. Above them, some of the Lords were taking bets on the winner, as they surveyed the combatants over cups of wine.

 

For the first time since he had become King, Jon finally felt whole. _This is what I was made for,_ he thought with a rush of exultation, as he deflected yet another blow. _If in years to come they remember my name, let them say I was a King that looked his foe in the eye and fought his battles with a sword in hand._

 

In a brief moment between blows, Jon happened to glance at the balcony. Though all the other Lords were laughing and calling to both combatants, Sansa alone was not smiling. There was something clutched in her hands, and her face was pale with shock. He caught her gaze from across the yard, for only a second, but Jon saw horror deep in her eyes. _Something is wrong,_ realised Jon with a pang. _I’ve never seen her this worried._

 

The momentary distraction was not missed by Lord Royce, who acted on it. His longsword came down in a powerful downward stroke, which would have broken Jon’s shoulder had it landed. With only a moment to spare, Longclaw caught the blade and deflected the blow, but the impact twisted his arm, and the force caused him to stagger backwards. Jon was dazed for a moment, but quickly recovered to counter yet another strike, and the duel resumed.

 

In time both men were breathing heavily and each strike came slower as their arms began to ache, so Jon decided to end the duel. “Shall we call it a draw, my lord?” he asked Royce, who lowered his blade in disguised relief.

 

“A draw”, conceded Royce with a grudging smile. The Lord crossed the distance between them and his large gloved hand clasped Jon’s own. The older man sized him up, with a pleased look. “That was well fought, Your Grace”.

 

Jon’s sword arm was stiff with pain, yet in spite of that he was still wondering what Sansa’s look had meant. He looked quickly at the balcony, over the Lord’s shoulder, but Sansa had recovered herself and he could gather little from her perfect composure. Yet there was a stiffness in the way that she sat, and her eyes still betrayed a hint of worry. His gaze flicked back to Royce, who was now looking at him curiously, and Jon forced himself to smile also.

 

“It was a tough contest, my lord, and we should continue it some other time. I’ve fought so few with your skill at the blade”. It seemed he said the right thing, as the Lord smiled slightly and dipped his head before retreating back to his men.

 

But Jon’s focus was already moved away from the yard, and his gaze was fixed on Sansa. He started down the yard, then quickly up the stairs to the balcony. Many Lords dipped their head at his arrival, and hailed him politely, yet Jon ignored them all. Sansa had seen his rapid approach and guessed that she was the cause of it, for she had bid farewell to Lord Glover and was waiting for him when he arrived.

 

Wordlessly, Jon took her arm and lead her gently into a side door, that connected the balcony to the Lord’s tower. Up the spiral stairs they climbed, neither one saying a word to the other, until they reached Sansa’s chambers halfway down the passage.

 

Only when the door had closed behind them did Sansa turn to look at him. “There has been terrible news. A raven came while you were training with Lord Royce”. She was clutching a small scroll and when she held it to him her hands shook slightly.

 

 _What has happened?,_ wondered Jon as he took the scroll from her, never breaking his gaze. _Have the Lannisters marched an army against us, or is it something worse?_ The scroll was fixed with a seal embossed with a sigil of three sentinel trees. _The mark of House Tallhart,_ Jon realised. _This likely came from their ancestral castle, Torrhen’s Square_. Parts of it were so badly covered in dried blood that it took Jon a few tries to decipher the words.

 

_Torrhen’s Square is lost, taken by the Ironborn reavers of King Euron Greyjoy. They came in force in the black of night, and scaled the castle walls. What men were available to us could not resist them, and the reavers now pillage the high hall of the Tallharts. We few that escaped have taken refuge in a nearby holdfast, but an Ironborn fleet descends on us even now and we cannot resist them long. I beg that Your Grace send aid with all haste, or else we are lost   ----  Maester Banneth once of Torrhen’s Square_

 

Long after he had finished reading the Maester’s letter, Jon stared at the scroll as if by pure will alone he could change the words. _This is my doing,_ he realised as an intense guilt flooded him. _I asked Lord Tallhart to send his men to the Wall, weakening Torrhen’s Square in the process. If they had not ridden north, maybe the Ironborn could have been driven back._

 

“Lord Tallhart doesn’t know”, whispered Sansa. “I thought that you should be made aware first. He should hear the news from you”.

 

 _How can I ever face the Lord again? His castle is plundered, and his family is captive because of me._ Jon bowed his head, his hand inadvertently balling into a fist and crushing the scroll. He remained in that position for a while, until Sansa moved to his side. Gently she prised the parchment from his fingers before pulling him to sit on her bed. Jon followed her numbly, still reeling from what he had read.

 

“I have failed them”, he murmured hoarsely to Sansa. It was the truth no matter how he looked at it. _King for less than a half month and already I’ve failed my people._

 

Sansa took his hands and squeezed them. “You did _not_ failed them”, she said firmly. “Nobody could have known that the Ironborn would attack again, after only recently having been driven from the North”.

 

Jon laughed sourly, “many of our Lords warned me of the danger of weakening ourselves, and most begged me not to send men to the Wall. The Ironborn must have been waiting for the first sign of weakness, and struck in the week when the Tallhart host were guests at Winterfell. I allowed this happen, and it is the people of Torrhen’s Square that pay for my mistake”.

 

 _How many men will die tonight, and how many women will be raped before being sold as thralls by the reavers?,_ he wondered duly. But the numbness was fast leaving him and replacing itself with a fury that he had felt only once before, when with his bare hands he had beat Ramsay Bolton near to death. _Winterfell was taken from us in exactly the same way, and it decimated our family and power_. _I will not let the same happen to the Tallharts._

 

Perhaps Sansa saw the anger in his eyes, for she quailed when their eyes met and her grip on his hands slipped. Jon stood slowly and began to pace restlessly, allowing the anger to slowly drain. Soon he was deep in thought, his boots scuffing the wood floor as Sansa eyed him warily. They needed to march immediately to prevent more Ironborn landing on western shores, and their chances would be better with more Tallhart men fighting with them.  

 

“If I send a fast rider we can recall the men before they reach the Wall” said Jon, a plan slowly forming. “A large part of that host is made of Tallhart men who know the lands around Torrhen’s Square well. With their help it will be easier to take back the keep”.

 

But Sansa was shaking her head. “You gave the command to send the men to the Wall so if you recall them, as if to admit a poor decision, the Lords will lose all respect for you. The Wall needs to be defended as well and, since you have already committed the host, there they must stay”.

 

“The Others take their respect”, Jon exclaimed angrily. “We already have an armed host of men who we can march immediately to Torrhen’s Square. We need to act as fast as we can”.

 

“You are a King now, Jon”, Sansa shot back sharply. “This will not be the only battle, and when the other ones come we will need the Lords to be obedient”. Her tone softened then and as he paced past her, she grabbed his hand and pulled him so that he was sitting on the bed yet again. “Besides, you have the entire power of the North at your command, so use it. The other Lords can give you an army as well, you simply have to ask”.

 

 _How did it come to this?,_ Jon wondered with a touch of despair. _When did the lives of our men become just another part of a game?_ In the end he nodded unhappily; there was truth in her words no matter how much he wanted to deny them. Yet Lord Tallhart would not take this decision well, and the conversation with the man was not a one that Jon was looking forward to.

 

“I will ask the other Lords for men”, Jon conceded in a defeated tone. “When the army is made, we will take back the Tallhart lands from the Ironborn”. He rose to his feet and smiled wryly, “I’ve never fought an Ironborn reaver before, but I expect they fight a little more violently than the men in the yard”.  

 

Sansa rose as well, her eyes fixed on him. His weak jest had somehow done what that dark letter could not, and brought a rare hint of fear into her eyes. “Promise me that you won’t be foolish out there, Jon. Promise me that when you march, you will return unharmed”.

 

“I swear it”, said Jon solemnly before embracing her. But it was a promise that even Kings could not keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was more of a setup chapter, but I hope that doesn't feel too much like an interlude. As always, comments/criticism are always welcome.


	5. The Iron Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The power of the North engages the hosts of the Ironborn, to retake Torrhen's Square.

 

 

The deep resonating blow of a warhorn woke Jon from sleep. Within a half second, he was bolt upright and the dagger, hidden inside his pillow, had been unsheathed to ward off any assailants that should come. For a long moment Jon sat tensely, his ears straining to hear what was occurring beyond the dull grey walls of his tent. Yet he heard no ring of steel, nor the cries of battle or screams of dying men. Instead there were sounds of friendly greetings and raucous laughter, mixed with the steady clatter of horse hooves and the ring of steel.

 

“Your Grace, may I enter?”, called a voice from outside and Jon recognised it as belonging to a guardsman who had stood sentry for him last night. 

 

“Come in”, he answered back, wiping his face clean of a sheen of sweat, that had formed despite the bitterly cold air. The guard took a hesitant step through the tent flap, but seeing the dagger he recoiled slightly. Jon waved him closer, sheathing the blade as he did so. “I heard the horn, have more men come to join us?”

 

The guard looked anxious at being alone in the presence of his King, especially with Ghost curled in the corner of the tent, yet nodded his head. “Yes m’lord. The scouts have returned with word of a large Northern host approaching us, flying the sigil of a merman on a blue field. The men say that they number a thousand strong”.

 

_ The merman is the mark of Lord Manderly,  _ Jon thought pleased.  _ He has come at a good time, we must ride today or risk the weather turning. _ “Send word to the other Lords that they are to gather here to discuss the battle. Tell them that we ride for the Square today.”

 

After the guard had taken his leave, Jon pushed himself to his feet, the heavy bearskin blanket falling off his chest as he rose. Though he was still tired, Jon knew that once awake he would not find sleep again. As he donned his leather cuirass, his mind turned to planning the battle that would likely come before the end of the day. 

 

It had been a week and a half since they had ridden from Winterfell, to take back Torrhen’s Square from the Ironborn invaders. He had said his farewells to Sansa in the great courtyard of the castle, as the snow fell lightly around them, yet though his sister had helped him gather the host together, it was clear that she desperately did not want him to leave. 

 

“I will not be away for too long” Jon had reassured her with a smile. “It will not be too hard a campaign, and when Torrhen’s Square is taken back, I will ride home immediately”. The words were bold, but they both knew that taking back the Square would not be as simple as Jon made it out to be. Not when they must factor the unpredictability of the Ironborn.

 

Sansa did not appear to be mollified and she had simply gripped him tighter, as if by pure force she could stop him leaving her. They were in full view of the men that milled around them both, yet none dared look to upon their King or the Lady Stark directly. “Even if you must lose the castle, return home Jon. Be cautious on the battlefield and just come back unharmed”, her voice was firm but had an unmistakeable plea to it.

 

“I will return”, he swore to her solemnly yet again. “In my absence you are the Lady of Winterfell and Lady Paramount of the North. Command the men as you need, and defend our home until I can return”. These words were spoken loudly for every man to hear, and many bowed their heads in acknowledgement to Sansa. However what was left unsaid was more important.  _ I also name you my heir, and if I should die you will be the Queen in the North.  _ But there was no reason to upset Sansa about this yet, and he had no intention of dying. Yet all the same, his will was written and witnessed so that the North would not be leaderless should he fall.

 

Then they had left, riding swiftly down the King’s Road to Castle Cerwyn, as Sansa watched them forlornly from the battlements of the castle. Their host had numbered less than a thousand then, yet were all mounted for Jon was eager to make progress as soon as possible and a march would take too long. For that reason he had left most of the Wildlings behind, as the free folk had no experience with riding horses.

 

Tormund had raged at that, yet conceded in the end. “But I am coming with you. No man has even forbade Tormund Giantsbane from battling before”, the big man said firmly, brooking no argument. Jon would much rather that the Wildling stay in Winterfell with Sansa, as it made him uneasy to leave her unprotected with Littlefinger still remaining in the castle. But the Wildling was amongst the fiercest warriors in the North, and it would be a waste so sit such a man out of the battle. So Tormund had come, cursing and struggling with his garron as they travelled, yet Jon was glad to have the man by his side.  

 

Every stage of the journey their power had increased as more riders joined them. When Jon had finally ordered the host move westward to Torrhen’s Square it was with three thousand horsemen behind him. With Lord Manderly’s cavalry having reached them at last, their riding party would total four thousand strong. 

 

In truth, it was more men than was necessary to retake the castle, yet the Northmen had not forgotten the sack of Winterfell by Theon Greyjoy and his reavers, and though unrequested the men had flocked to join them and sate their need for revenge. 

 

_ My need for revenge almost cost us the Battle for the North,  _ Jon thought to himself as he buckled Longclaw to his waist.  _ I will not let it cost us this battle as well.  _

 

It was Lord Tallhart that he was most worried about, when the battle came. When Jon had told Tallhart the news that his castle had been taken, he had wondered whether the Lord had understood him. The Lord’s face had been expressionless while he listened to news of the capture of his family, but his normally ruddy face had drained of colour until it was the same pale shade as milk. Since then, he had ridden the journey in a brooding silence but with such a dark look in his eyes that men feared to speak with him.  _ When the battle comes the Lord must not be given a position of command, _ Jon decided. _ He doesn’t think any more clearly than I did when Rickon was struck down.  _

 

Indeed, the Lord was as fey as Jon had once been, and not two days ago his small company of men had come across three Ironborn scouts hiding in the banks of a river, as they rode well ahead of the main host. By the time Jon had arrived to question the men, Lord Tallhart had already slashed the reavers into bloody pieces and had the remains thrown into the raging waters.   

 

While Jon could not fault the man for being worried about his captive wife and children, the butchery of captives, even if they were Ironborn, was more than he could stomach. It was only the urgings of Ser Davos that had prevented him from harshly rebuking the Lord. 

 

“We cannot afford quarrels amongst ourselves”, the onion knight had reminded him. “The Lord already blames you for the sack of his castle and if he is further angered it will be bad for morale, and defeating the Ironborn will be that much harder. If you must deal with the Lord, at least wait until the fighting is over”. 

 

_If I am his King, then the blood of those men is as much on my hands as it is on the Lord’s,_ Jon had thought angrily. _The man has brought dishonour to us both._ Yet in the end Jon had agreed with Davos, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. 

 

Having dressed himself, Jon stepped out of the tent, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was only just after dawn yet the camp was already stirring in response to the newcomers. The host of Manderly was entering the camp, the horses trotting gingerly as they passed over the churned mud. The Lord himself rode towards Jon and dismounted, before kneeling at his feet.

 

“Rise, my lord” said Jon rather awkwardly before waiting for Manderly to straighten. He had never quite gotten used to men kneeling before him. “You have come at a good time, we must depart immediately for the Square. With any luck we will have victory before the end of the day”.

 

Manderly laughed gruffly. “Tis a fine day for battle too. That accursed snowfall is lessened and my outriders tell me that much of the snow on the plains is melting, so the horses should have no trouble reaching the castle”.

 

_ This is good news as well,  _ Jon thought.  _ With the snow cleared, it should only be a half day ride until we reach the nearest Tallhart holdfast.  _ As they spoke the other Lords were gathering, red eyed from lack of sleep, and Jon invited them into his tent to discuss the final preparations. 

 

The disagreements began almost immediately, as they sat around the large oak table and peered over maps depicting Torrhen’s Square and its surrounding lands. As it was in Winterfell, each Lord had an opinion that it seemed none of the others shared. Lord Cerwyn thought they should to ride to siege the castle immediately, Lady Mormont thought it best to ride for the coasts and halt the Ironborn tide and Lord Glover thought they should split the host and do both. Only Lord Tallhart himself did not venture a strategy to retake his lands, and sat in silence as the others argued. Jon listened patiently to the Lords, until he had heard enough, then held his hand for silence.

 

“You bring forward good points, my lords, but our first priority must be the holdfasts surrounding the castle”, he said clearly. “When we have taken back the surrounding lands, they will help sustain our campaign and launch a defence”. There were nods to this, as a few of the lords conceded his words. “But as to defending our shores from further attack, only Lord Manderly has a fleet of ships large enough to defend against the Ironborn. Yet the his power is on the wrong side of the realm, and unless the fleet is sailed around the entirety of Westeros, we do not have the means to defend ourselves from the forces of Euron Greyjoy”. 

 

Lord Tallhart scowled at that. “So my castle is indefensible, is that what Your Grace means to say?”, he demanded bluntly. Though the morning air was already cold, the temperature in the tent seemed to drop even further, and many of the Lords exchanged glances as they looked between their King and Lord Tallhart.

 

“Guard your tongue, my lord”, snarled Lord Glover, his large gauntleted hands curling into tight fists. “You are speaking to your King”. 

 

Tallhart gave the other lord a baleful glare. “Aye… the King in the North”, he muttered darkly, before turning to look at Jon, “and just like his brother too. Another  _ boy  _ who lost the North to the Ironborn”. 

 

A shocked silence fell briefly at his words, followed by a barrage of sound as the Lords shouted their disapproval at his words. 

 

“ _ Boy _ ?” thundered Lord Glover in outrage. He stood so fast that his chair was thrown aside, and lunged at Tallhart. If not for Tormund, who grabbed a shoulder and hauled Glover backwards, the mailed fist would have pummeled out half of the Lord’s teeth. Lord Cerwyn moved to assist the Wildling, but even with two men restraining him Glover wrestled violently in a renewed attempt to strike down Lord Tallhart.

 

“ENOUGH!” roared Jon, his voice cutting sharply through the uproar. There was a streak of white, and suddenly Ghost had pounced onto the table, scattering cups of wine and the candles. The direwolf snapped its jaws so viciously at Glover, that the man lurched aside, anger replaced by sudden and intense fear.

 

Silence fell yet again, and Lord Glover quietened under Ghost’s deadly unblinking gaze. All eyes were turned now to Jon, judging his every word. This was the first challenge to his rule, and the Lords awaited his response with guarded expressions. 

 

_ Is this how Robb’s Kingship was undone? When Lord Karstark forswore him in the South, that was truly the end of his reign. Is Tallhart my Karstark?,  _ wondered Jon darkly. But now uttered, the challenge must be met before other Lord’s gained ideas of disobedience.  _ Kindness and mercy are of no use now,  _ he realised sadly.  _ And the words I must say are bitter cold, to say the least.  _

 

“When we called upon your aid for the Battle of the North, you refused us”, Jon reminded the Lord in a soft tone, focusing only on Tallhart. “Winterfell is under no debt to fight for your rights. But I ride to the Square anyway, if only because I have a duty to defend all those that swore me as King”. He paused to better examine Tallhart before he spoke. There was a change in the Lord’s eyes, and for the first time anger was replacing itself with a hint of fear. “So tell me my lord. Boy or not, am I still your King?”    

 

The warning was plain to hear and a few Lords looked mildly apprehensive. Even Jon was astonished by his own daring.  _ Denounce me as King and this host will turn around,  _ the words seemed to whisper.  _ Denounce me and you will receive no help.  _ It was something that had to be said to restore order, yet Jon felt unworthy and somehow soiled.  _ These are the words of a tyrant, _ he thought with self loathing. But the Lord had proven himself unruly over the past few days, and little else would abate him.

 

It was a bold thing to say as, no matter what he said, Jon was still obligated to fight and protect his country. Yet all the same, there was fear on Tallhart’s face before the Lord masked it. Slowly, the man walked forward until he was directly in front of Jon, then bent the knee. “My apologies, Your Grace. I meant my oath when I swore you as my King”.

 

The tension in the assemblage visibly slackened, and though he was still stewing even Lord Glover subsided, and Tormund released him. Jon indicated that Tallhart should rise, and looked the man in the eyes. “I know that it is in part my fault that your family is captive. By the grave of my Father, I promise to do all that I can to make them safe and retake your keep. That much I will swear”. 

 

There was magic in the name of Eddard Stark. It blunted the edge of his words and the lords, who had looked uneasy, relaxed and bowed their heads.  _ He would have hated that threat,  _ thought Jon tiredly. Lord Tallhart inclined his head in response, yet while he looked mollified, Jon knew that the man still had doubts. 

__

Turning back to the other Lords, Jon looked each in the eyes by turn. Many flinched as his gaze fell on them, yet none looked away. “We ride now”, he said firmly. “Lord Glover, take one thousand men and ride northwards to the nearest holdfasts before heading for Torrhen’s Square itself. Lord Manderly, do the same except for the south. The Valemen and the rest of the Northmen are under my command, to clear the lands around the castle”. The Lords nodded at this, none of them daring to oppose him.  _ They obey now, but if this plan fails I might as well set aside the crown, so entirely will their respect be lost. I suppose we'll know soon enough. _

 

With that Jon lead the exit from the tent. A large group of men had gathered, obviously hearing the quarrel inside and the bellow of their King. They looked at Jon speculatively as he surveyed them. “Break the camp”, Jon ordered. “We ride in an hour to take back our lands and avenge our people”. A cheer went up at that, and the group scattered quickly to do as he bid. __

 

An hour later, they were trotting swiftly across the plains of the Barrowlands, on which the Tallhart holdings had been raised. As Lord Manderly had said, winter seemed to have temporarily abated and a large part of the snow had melted to allow the horses to move at a brisk pace. Jon rode alone at the head of two thousand horse, with Ser Davos and Lord Royce riding many feet behind him.

 

The destination in front of them still seemed a while away, but all around them the countryside moved by swiftly, and men blinked in wonder as the diminished cold revealed its exotic beauty. Unfrozen streams trickled through icicle studded evergreen groves, whose canopy sheltered wild deer that ate the last berries of autumn. Birds sung merrily above, and the wind was light, carrying the fresh smell of pine needles. In the half mist of morning, the entire scene seemed to shimmer as if viewed through the thinnest pane of ice. 

 

_This is true Northland,_ thought Jon marvelling. _It is a pity Sansa is not here, she would have loved to see this. Perhaps we will come here another day when everything had quietened down._ Sansa had spent her entire childhood wishing that she could leave the seemingly barren North, yet Jon confident that the beauty on display here was unmatched by anything that the South could offer.

 

Hours more passed and the host, which had been raucous before, quietened with anticipation of the battle to come. Ser Davos rode up beside Jon, looking mildly worried. “We are approaching the Tallhart holdfasts. By now Lord Glover and his men will have reached the northern holdfasts, so the Ironborn will be expecting us”.

 

“Aye, they will”, replied Jon, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. Euron Greyjoy was renowned as being half mad, yet mad men were unusually cunning too. Rumours also abounded that he had made alliance with Cersei Lannister, and if true it could mean more men and resources at his disposal. The sound of horse hooves turned his head sharply, and Jon saw an outrider returning back to them.

 

“Your Grace, there is an army camped at the holdfast”, the man called out to him. “They’ve set fire to the surrounding land and are trying to break down the gates”.

 

A thin stream of smoke was hovering in the distance, and Jon muttered a low curse as he realised what it meant. “Ride now”, he commanded sharply to the men behind him, kicking his horse into a gallop, and the host surged forwards, gathering speed.  

 

As his horse was urged over a low hill, Jon’s eyes widened in horror, as the full scale of the destruction became apparent to him. The land for 100 feet around the holdfast was blackened and smoking, all greenery having been consumed by some monstrous fire. The holdfast itself was aflame, thick plumes of black smoke rising into the air like the shadowy fist of a demon, grasping for the sun.  _ It is as if this holdfast was bathed in dragonfire itself,  _ Jon thought in dismay. 

 

Behind him there were curses and low oaths as more and more men witnessed the carnage. An army of five hundred Ironborn were camped near the banks of a wide river and, seeing the Northern host, they began to jeer loudly while upholding their axes. A white hot anger filled Jon at the sight and he unsheathed Longclaw, which glittered in the muffled sunlight. Behind him, there was a steely ring as a thousand swords were drawn in response, and a thousand spears lowered. “Winterfell”, roared Jon, and he kicked his horse into gear and charged head on at the awaiting reavers.

 

“King in the North”, roared the men in return as they galloped at full speed behind him. Jon could barely hear them, so far ahead of the riders had he travelled. Nothing could keep pace with him, as his horse flew down the slope, except Ghost who was little more than a white blur at his side.  

 

And then the Ironborn were on him. Jon rode down two men when he smashed their feeble shieldwall, and Ghost tore apart a third. Men came at him from two directions, and died. Men attacked his horse, and died. Men fled from his onslaught, and died. The rest of his riders reached him, and the remainder of the shield wall was ripped apart by the charge.

 

_ Winter has come,  _ thought Jon with cold fury.  _ It will show you no mercy.  _ The Ironborn were strong warriors, yet unskilled in fighting horsemen and outnumbered besides. The Northern host quickly made large gains before the reavers could mount a defence. 

 

The fighting appeared to have coalesced into three areas, and Jon looked for Tormund or Davos but could not find either man. The scatter of dead and dying men made traversing on horseback treacherous, so he dismounted and charged at the nearest reaver. The man was huge, larger even than Tormund, and stank of blood and sour wine. The reaver deflected Longclaw with the edge of his steel and returned the blow with his battleaxe. Jon danced aside, and aimed a savage side slash at him. For all his ferocity, the man screamed as the Valyrian steel cut through his breastplate like melted butter, and collapsed dead on the blood soaked field.

 

By then two more Ironborn had charged at him, and Jon only barely got his sword high enough to deflect their blows. A Northman and Valeman came behind him, to engaged the reavers. The Valeman fought well, disarming his foe and thrusting his steel sword into the man’s chest. The Northman was less fortunate. The reaver split his skull with a powerful blow to the head, before he was beheaded in turn by Longclaw.

 

Jon looked around to find that the fighting had suddenly moved and that he was alone by the river side, on the far edge of the field. There was chaos a near distance away, yet the Ironborn were rapidly losing the battle. The Valeman who had defended him was bent over in pain, clutching at his chest. “Are you hurt friend?” asked Jon, crouching beside the man. “Hold firm, we will find you a healer as quickly as we can”. 

The man’s eyes met his own, and in that instant Jon knew that something was wrong.  _ There is no pain in those eyes,  _ he thought confused. “I’m sorry, Your Grace”, whispered the man quietly, and slashed with his hidden dagger. Jon bellowed with pain as the blade found its mark in the poorly protected area under his left arm, and cut deep into his breast. Blood welled through the gaps in the cuirass and Jon toppled over in agony. The man towered over him, dagger now pointed at his throat.

 

_ Betrayed for a second time...is this how it ends?,  _  wondered Jon through his daze.  _ I’m sorry that I couldn’t keep my promise, Sansa. I will give Father, Robb and Rickon your love.  _ One more strike, and it would all be over. Yet the man hesitated, a smile touching his face as he took a moment to savour the sight of a King sprawling in the mud. Jon remembered seeing that same cocksure smile before.  _ This is the Corbray Knight that I dueled in Winterfell,  _ he realised duly through a fresh wave of pain. The moment ended quickly, and the Knight stabbed downwards, yet the dagger never reached his throat.

 

Ghost materialised out of nowhere, throwing himself at the Corbray Knight, who screamed as the weight of the wolf knocked him over. In desperation the man stabbed at Ghost, the dagger biting into the direwolf’s shoulder and staining the white fur with a patch of deep scarlet blood. Ghost yelped in pain, but his maw found and tore the man’s throat apart, and the Knight’s screams abruptly subsided. 

 

Gritting his teeth, Jon pushed himself upright, staggering as a fresh wave of pain hit him. Ghost was at his side again, and he leaned heavily upon the wolf. The wound the direwolf had taken did not appear too deep, yet he padded along with a slight limp.  _ What did I ever do to wrong this man?,  _ Jon wondered dully, as he looked upon the Knight’s torn body.

 

The battle was over, the Ironborn turned to rout. What little resistance they continued to put up was rapidly collapsing, and those that ran would not escape far whilst being pursued on horseback.  _ This was almost too easy,  _ thought Jon with suspicion. It was true: the Ironborn knew of their arrival yet had not even taken the holdfast to hold as a defence, preferring rather to wait outside its walls. Nor had they retreated to their longships, though they clearly lacked the men to defeat the Northern host. 

 

_ This is simply a diversion,  _ he realised through the pain.  _ The main assault is elsewhere. _ Jon looked northwards to the shadow of Torrhen’s Square itself, which now was faintly visible down the river. The castle was crowned by low encircling mountains and, from its feet, came the fierce sound of warhorns, carried faintly over the water. 

 

Ignoring the blinding pain that laced every step, Jon half ran back into the fray. The men were cheering loudly when he arrived. “King in the North” they roared in unison, upon seeing his approach. Yet many fell silent upon seeing the dread look in his eyes. 

 

Tormund shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, and Jon leaned on him now, his heart racing with fear. “My horse”, he demanded, gesturing weakly. When the horse had been brought to him, Tormund half lifted Jon into the saddle so that he could speak to the men. “We have been tricked”, Jon said urgently. “We must ride north to the Square immediately. All remaining horses are to be mounted, but any unmounted man is to remain here and safeguard the townspeople”. The men were confused yet sprang into action, and in little time they were galloping on the high road, which wound by the edge of the riverbank to the Square itself.

 

Every hoofbeat was agony to Jon, yet he persisted and stuffed a torn cloth down the cuirass to soak the blood. In a short time the great thirty foot curtain wall of Torrhen’s Square was clearly visible in the distance. The castle was nestled into a shallow mountain and towered above a large lake. The river by which they now rode, fed the great lake, and was bound on either side by high cliffs. 

 

Jon’s eyes widened as he took in the scene in front of him, which was worse than he had feared. At the foot of the keep the second Northern army, under command of Lord Glover, was being battered by a large Ironborn host, yet that was not what caught his attention. A hundred longships sailed slowly up the river and their sails, bearing the gold Kraken of House Greyjoy, blocked the now setting sun.  _ Three thousand reavers,  _ thought Jon in dismay.  _ If all of them manage to land at the foot of the castle, the battle is lost. _

 

Many of the men had paled at the sight, yet they had a brave look in their faces.  _ My Northmen are ready to fight to the bitter end,  _ thought Jon sadly, but also with a touch of pride. He looked around and spied Lord Tallhart behind him. Jon had not given the man a command in the battle, as the Lord was not fit, yet now it seemed he had no other choice. Lord Glover’s Northern host must be aided, yet the ships must be dealt with as well. 

 

“My Lord”, he called, and Tallhart cantered to him. “The men are yours. Ride to your castle and defend it as best you can”. Tallhart nodded wordlessly and indicated that the riders follow him. One and a half thousand men sprang behind the Lord, and galloped at full speed down the high road to aid their kinsman at the foot of the Square. But Jon’s eyes were fixed on the slow moving fleet of ships, which every second drew closer to landing. 

 

Davos had ridden to his side, was talking quickly. “If the ships land, then our army is destroyed. But why must they land? In the Battle of the Blackwater, the Lannisters destroyed our fleet the moment they entered King’s Landing. We can do something similar here”. 

 

_ The cliffs surrounding the river,  _ thought Jon.  _ We may be able to use them to our advantage.  _ He urged his horse forwards, and was followed by the two hundred riders that had remained with him. The tops of the cliffs were accessible only from the plains, yet no horse could ascend them so Jon ordered a dismount, before beginning the rise to the top. 

 

Every second of that ascent was more painful that the last, and fresh blood welled from under Jon’s arm. Tormund was with him however, and the large Wildling helped pull him upwards in moments where his strength failed. As they climbed upwards the high road shrunk beneath them, until they had risen 100 feet above the two armies. Finally at the top, Jon looked down at the fighting. The galleys were now at the final stretch of the journey, and were making their way across the narrow river. The Ironborn laughed to see them on the cliffs, and a few arrows were let loose by them, to shatter harmlessly on the wall of rock.

 

“Return fire”, shouted Jon, and the bowmen of his party took aim at the approaching fleet. A hail of arrows descended on the reavers under them and many Ironborn fell overboard, with their chest skewered. But it was not enough, and fifty archers could not defeat three thousand reavers, who now blocked the arrow rain with their shields. 

 

_ There is nothing more we can do,  _ Jon thought with a chill.  _ We have lost Torrhen’s Square, and when they are done here the Ironborn could attack the rest of the North.  _ Despair filled him, and in rage he picked up a small boulder and hurled it down below. The rock struck the wall of the cliff on its way down, and let loose a cascade of smaller stones to rain on the galleys. The Ironborn now howled with laughter under them, but Jon was struck by a sudden idea.

 

“Hold”, he commanded loudly, pausing the arrow rain. “Every man is to gather as many of the largest boulders they can carry, and await my signal”. The men seemed to understand his plan, and frantically hauled the larger rocks from the loose ground, before wordlessly lining a 500 foot distance of cliff. 

 

_ Father help me _ , Jon begged, looking into the heavens.  _ If this fails then we are lost.  _ The fleet was now gaining speed, yet not a man stirred. There was utter silence now, broken only by the sounds of the distant fighting at the lakefront. Even the Ironborn had stopped laughing, and peered suspiciously up at the cliff, which shielded the Northmen from their gaze.  _ Almost there…  _ thought Jon,  _ almost.  _ The flagship of the fleet, a great war galley, had moved past the end of the line, but the ones behind it were now in the correct position, and Jon deemed that the time had come.

 

“NOW” he roared, and the men let loose their rocks. Two hundred boulders were thrown off the cliff, and the resultant impact on the wallface broke free a large amount of earth, which already had been loose and wet from the melting snow. The boulders quickly became an avalanche of rubble which, due to the narrowness of the river, could hardly miss the target. The ships of House Greyjoy were shattered upon the impact, pummeled into ruin as if by the fist of a god. The once proud Kraken of Greyjoy now washed forlornly against the banks of the river, before being buried under a mountain of debris.

From atop the cliff, Jon heard the screams of the reavers, as their ships were drowned under the onslaught. Over half of the longships had been destroyed in one fell swoop, and the other half had collided and toppled over the dam of stone, their crew now easy targets for Jon’s archers. Of all that host, only the great flagship had escaped them, and was sailing hesitantly to the lake.

 

“Victory for the White Wolf”, shouted a man, and the cliff face filled with cheers.

 

_ It is not yet over,  _ thought Jon warily, slumping to the ground and clutching at his chest, which now throbbed with renewed pain.  _ Lord Tallhart’s family is still inside the keep, and we must rescue them. _

 

His eye fell on that lone Greyjoy ship which had escaped them, and still moved slowly towards Torrhen’s Square. Suspicion filled him, and Jon pushed himself up yet again to better look at the ship. For a flagship the vessel was not particularly large, nor did it appear to have many men aboard… but it did appear to have a large trebuchet mounted on the deck, which none of the other ships had possessed.  _ A trebuchet that can fire over the curtain wall of Torrhen’s Square,  _ Jon realised with a pang.

 

A sudden premonition filled him, and Jon found himself shouting, “stop that ship”. Men turned to look at what he was indicating, and a few archers ran along the cliff edge to engage the vessel, which was now on the very threshold of the keep.

 

But it was already too late. The arm of the trebuchet swung in a deadly arc, and a large green sphere was thrown into the air. For a moment, time appeared to stand still, and the green orb hovered in the air above the keep of Torrhen’s Square. Then it fell.

 

The explosion shook the earth and, even from their vantage a distance away, the force of the blast brought a few of the men to their knees. The great stone keep of Torrhen’s Square was ripped apart by the green fire, and the towers of the castle fell to ruin, crushing every structure underneath. Under the protection of the curtain wall, the Northern army was spared destruction from the very stones of the castle, which were thrown hundreds of feet in every direction. A blanket of choking smoke cast a near impenetrable shadow over the sun, and the flickering green corpse light of the inferno was the only thing that could pierce it.

 

_ Wildfire,  _ thought Jon in anguish, falling to his knees with tears in his eyes.  _ By the gods, how did the whoresons get ahold of wildfire? _ So the rumours were true, Euron had made common cause with the Queen, and had traded his support for her most powerful weapon. _ Tallhart’s wife and children… killed along with gods know how many else.  _ He wanted to weep. He wanted to lift his face and rage at the gods for their cruelty. Yet now was not the time for that and, as King, now more than ever his people would rely on him.  _ For however short period of time is left to me. _ __

The rest of that battle passed by in a daze for Jon, who was blinded by pain, sorrow and guilt. He could barely remember the frantic gallop to the castle, or the breaking down of the great gates to rescue what survivors there were. He had spoken to many people afterwards, grieving with some and tending the injuries of others, yet not even that did he remember clearly.

 

What he did remember was slowly climbing the ash covered stairs up to the shattered keep, and finding a lone figure on the steps. Lord Tallhart’s face was strangely devoid of all emotion, as if he could not comprehend the sight infront of him, yet silent tears trickled down his face. The two of them stood there in silence for a long time, as the sun slowly dipped under the horizon. The Lord finally turned around to face him, looking at Jon blankly. His eyes were terrifying, two black pits devoid of any life or emotion.  _ The eyes of a man who has lost everything,  _ thought Jon with a chill.  

 

“When I declared you my King, I did not expect that the price would be so dear”, he threw at Jon flatly. “It appears that my loyalty has doomed me to a broken castle. Wifeless, childless and penniless, I swear that I shall go to my grave cursing my oath to you. For if I hadn’t sworn then perhaps this castle might still remain intact and my family might yet live”.      

 

_ Aye, perhaps they still would,  _ thought Jon with a fresh surge of guilt. But there was nothing more that could be said, so he retreated, allowing the Lord to grieve in private.

 

The battle was won. The Ironborn fleet had been destroyed or seized, and it would be a while before they could threaten the North again. The holdfasts had all been liberated, and the reavers that had taken them were put to the sword. For now at least the North was free from invaders, yet Jon took no joy in it. A Valeman ally had tried to kill him, the power of the Iron Throne was arrayed against them, and Torrhen’s Square was destroyed because of him.

 

_I have failed them all, Father,_ Jon thought in misery. _And I don’t know what to do now. Help me, show me the way, I beg you._ But if the shade of Eddard Stark was watching, he held his silence, and all Jon heard was the crackle of fire and harsh cries of carrion birds that descended to feast on blood and burnt flesh.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes this chapter became longer than I had intended, but I hope you enjoyed it. This is my first time writing a battle, yet every good romance has at least one battle and this one was particularly fun to write. As always, comments and criticism are always appreciated.


	6. Incurable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon deals with the aftermath of the Battle at Torrhen's Square

 

The air was heavy with a dull mist, tinged with a hint of the smoke that still rose from the smouldering ruins of Torrhen’s Square. But the sacred grove beyond the keep walls was peaceful, and lacked the fine layer of ash that covered the castle like fallen snow. It was there that many gathered, around the graves of the Lady Tallhart and her children, to pay their final respects.

 

The faces of the smallfolk were pale and sorrowful but, one by one, each laid a flower into the casket, before withdrawing. The bodies of the Tallharts looked peaceful in death, mercifully unmarred by the wildfire which had burnt alive so many people. Instead it had been a falling tower that had ended the lives of Lord Tallharts family and, though their faces were intact, the long silk blankets covered the ruin that was the rest of their bodies.

 

Lord Tallhart himself was not present for his own family’s burial, and had locked himself in his broken keep. Away from his hearing, the men whispered that the loss of his castle and kin to the wildfire, had driven the Lord into madness.

 

 _There might be some truth in what they say,_ Jon had thought upon hearing that. He had seen the Lord only a few times after the battle with Euron Greyjoy’s reavers had ended, but at the last sighting Jon thought that the man looked more like a corpse than his family did. The servants reported that his trays of food returned untouched, and that he refused all company, even from his own sworn men.

 

 _If he carries on like this then we might soon be burying him as well,_ thought Jon darkly.

 

But with the Lord absent, the responsibility of overseeing the burial fell to Jon, and it was a task that sapped what little of his spirit remained. His mind was already hazy, fogged from the milk of the poppy, that he had taken to dull the blinding pain of his wound. The Corbray Knight who had tried to kill him was dead, yet the deep cut that he had inflicted refused to heal. The milk had not been enough and every movement sent stabs of agony through him, as the wound taken on the battlefield festered.  

 

Yet he still had a duty to the dead, and Jon persisted through the pain to stand vigil for the fallen, over a long, cold night. He had spent hours simply studying the faces of the fallen Tallharts, before the silent sisters had prepared them for the afterlife. The Lady had a gentle, soft face, which even in death seemed to have a hint of a kind smile. It was the look of the children that struck Jon the hardest. The girl was only five, yet was pretty for her age, and the boy was around ten with a brave look about him.

 

In a corner, the visiting Lords stood in silence, paying their respect to the Tallharts. Many had once been a guest at Torrhen’s Square, and had known the Lady and her children personally. But in a strange way, though he had never met them when they had lived, Jon felt as if he knew the dead better than any of the others did. It was almost as if a bond existed between them, forged through blood in the fire that he had been powerless to prevent.  

 

Lord Royce caught his eye and gave him a nod. Jon had avoided all contact with the Valemen since the end of the battle. One of their own had tried to kill him and, try as he might, Jon couldn't find it in him to trust them anymore.

 

 _Royce is honourable and is no friend of Littlefinger. Should I tell him of what happened on the field?,_ Jon mused silently as he returned the nod politely. But honour cut both ways and, though Royce’s dislike of Lord Baelish was well known, the man would never act against Littlefinger without permission from his liege Lord, Robin Arryn.  

 

Jon’s eyes passed over Royce, and fixed on the Glovers, who stood off to the side. The Lord looked rather wane himself, and was holding his Lady wife softly. Lady Glover had made the journey to Torrhen’s Square to pay her respects, and was now weeping quietly into the Lord’s chest. The Glover lands lay close to Torrhen’s Square and, despite the quarrel that had occurred between the Lords before the battle, there had once been friendship between the two families.

 

 _His wife had known the Lady Tallhart well,_ Jon remembered. _If they had lived, the Tallhart children might have grown alongside those of Glover’s. Perhaps in time the two Houses might have been united by marriage._

 

The sight of the Glovers reminded him of that dark day at Winterfell, when he and Sansa had interred their fallen brother Rickon into stone. Even in death, Rickon’s face was fierce and restless, but somehow more peaceful that it had ever been in life. The stonemason had done good work on his tomb, and the eerie likeness of the fallen Stark now rested in the crypts of Winterfell. Throughout all that bleak day, Sansa had shed not a single single tear in front of the assembled Lords, yet in private she had broken down and Jon had held her until she had cried herself to sleep.

 

 _Why is it that children must die in conflict?_ Jon wondered sorrowfully. _The Tallhart children, Rickon, they all had their entire lives ahead of them, before this cursed war came to us._  

 

But it did no good to think of what might have been, as Jon knew from experience. The procession had finished now, and Jon walked to the head of the funeral bier. The flowers, covering all the body except the face, had given the bodies a surreal look and all three Tallharts looked as though they were simply asleep.

 

Jon looked down into the crowd, into the sea of downcast eyes. As King he knew that he was expected to say something, to honour the fallen and to grieve alongside the mourners. Yet now, less than an arm's length away from the bodies, he found little to say.

 

 _They are dead because of my mistake,_ he thought for the thousandth time, _King or not_ , _I have no right to speak for them._ Yet as he looked at the pointed features of the Tallhart girl, a sudden anger surged through him, erasing the pain lacing his chest, and the words came unbidden.

 

“We have together to mourn”, Jon started slowly, “for lives that were taken from us too soon. The Lady and the children were innocent. They were kind and gentle and good hearted… they did not deserve to die like this. They did not deserve to die at all”. There were nods of sad agreement to this. “Once again we must endure hardships, yet endure we will, and Winterfell will stand in aid to Torrhen’s Square. But let it never be said that we have forgotten the crimes committed against our country. The North remembers, and I swear to you with the dead as witness, we will never know tragedy like this again”.  

 

There was a low assent to his words, and many present looked mollified and less sorrowful. “King in the North”, they murmured in agreement, looking at him like children desperate for the reassurances of their father. _Despite all that has befallen, they still believe in their King,_ Jon thought in dull anguish, looking deep into the eyes of the crowd. _But_ _how long will their trust last?_  

 

Jon gave a signal, and the silk blankets were lifted to finally cover the faces of the Tallharts. Unlike the Starks, who built tombs for the deceased, the Tallharts laid their honoured dead in the ground. The bodies were lowered into their deep graves, and the hole was refilled slowly with soft earth. At the surface, an oak sapling was planted in the fresh soil, so that in the decades to come a mighty tree might grow to mark the resting place of the fallen.  

 

A sudden lethargy struck Jon as the Lady and the children had been laid to rest. The pain, suppressed by his sudden anger, now returned in full force and Jon was forced to sit on a stone wall as his head spun. In the distance, young Lady Mormont was talking with the assembled Lords, and was offering her condolences to those that had known the Tallharts well. She happened to glance at Jon and abruptly broke off a conversation to walk swiftly towards him.

 

“You look terrible, Your Grace”, said the Lady casually, standing directly in front of him. Sitting on the low wall, Jon’s eyes were equal to her own, yet it felt like she towered over him.

 

In spite of everything, a low laugh escaped Jon. “I feel terrible, my Lady. But my injuries are nothing compared what others have taken. Your pity is wasted on me”.

 

“It was not pity”, Lyanna Mormont countered sharply. “You will need to heal quickly, if we are to survive what is coming. _The North remembers,_ you said when you spoke to the crowd? Yes, it’s true that Northmen have long memories, but perhaps some things, like the execution of your father and the Red Wedding, are better not remembered in times of grief. From what I now hear, every farmer’s son and stableboy has begun to clamour for war against the Throne”.

 

 _They want to restart the war against the Throne?_ wondered Jon in horror, sitting up with all pain forgotten. “That is madness”, he said. “Even with the Vale allied with us, we do not have enough men to challenge the Lannisters. And should we march South, the Ironborn will have no opposition, and will be free to attack us again”.

 

Lady Mormont shrugged at that. “Have you ever known a Northerner to think that far ahead? Some believe the Ironborn are defeated and others sing songs about their new King who is invincible on the field”. She snorted at that last part. “The Lords are only slightly more hesitant, yet even they dream of vengeance. The North is angry, Your Grace, and there are still many that would leap at the chance for revenge. As King the decision falls to you, but I fear that the choice might soon not be yours anymore”.  

 

 _War has already shattered our power once,_ thought Jon. _A second one against the Throne could mean our total annihilation. If Winterfell falls for a second time it will never rise again. And there are the Ironborn to deal with, Euron has many more men than what he sent._

 

That last part gave him an idea, and he looked at Lady Mormont with a plan forming. “Your lands are close to the Iron Islands”, said Jon slowly. “Would you consent to committing your men to the seas, to stop the Ironborn attacking us by stealth again?”

 

The Lady flicked her hair in annoyance at that. “Do you think me a fool?” she demanded, her eyes flashing. “My men are already combing the seas, but there are no signs of the reavers. In any case, Bear Island lacks the men to defend the coast if Euron should send more men”.

 

“I will talk with Lord Glover”, replied Jon. “His lands are also close to the Iron Islands, and he has enough men to protect the coasts. You are to give him any ships that you can spare, so that if invasion comes again, we can drive back the reavers. With the Ironborn fleet that we seized, we should have enough naval power. The western coasts have strong tides, whirlpools and hidden rocks, so any progress by the reavers will be slow if we launch a strong defence”.

 

“And what of the war with the South?”, the Lady demanded. “I do not think the men will simply let go of their vengeance. You can almost hear the sharpening of swords already.”

 

Jon gave her a sharp look and struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall as he regained his balance. “As to that, they are welcome to hold their need for vengeance close, but I have no taste for it. The entire South has risen against the Lannisters, so there is no need for us to involve ourselves. The North will be involved in no more conflicts, our people have bled enough.”                    

 

That got him a small smile from Lady Mormont, who looked grudgingly impressed. When the Lady had withdrawn, Jon let out a low groan that he had been holding in, and whistled for Ghost. The direwolf was at his side almost instantly. The wound it had taken from the Corbray Knight was healing well, though the direwolf still walked with a small limp. Jon leaned on the wolf, and made his way slowly back to the quarters of a large inn, that had been set aside for him.

 

On the way, through the ash covered streets, they met Tormund. The big man assessed him with a quick glance, and grunted with disapproval. “You need a strong drink lad”, he said pointing to Jon’s chest. “Nothing like a drink to make you forget about wounds. You look like a dead man walking”. He chuckled at that, but Jon could not even muster a weak smile.

 

Tormund grunted again, and helped support Jon to his chambers. The effects of the milk of the poppy was fading, and with his mind cleared, the pain seemed even sharper. _This is Littlefinger’s doing,_ he thought angrily. _He tried to have one of his men kill me._ _When I return to Winterfell, I’ll have his head._ There was also fear mixed in with the anger. With the exception of the Wildling forces Jon had left behind, Sansa was alone in the castle with only Littlefinger as company. _We have tarried here far too long, I must return to make sure she is safe._

 

He had already sent an urgent raven to Winterfell, both telling Sansa of the battle and warning her to be cautious, though he did not say why. The bird had returned with one of Sansa’s formal messages, but there was no mention of Lord Baelish, or indeed of anything else. Jon had gritted his teeth at that. Sansa was an enigma at the best of times, but through the written word, Jon could not even divine a hint of her thoughts. Yet she appeared unharmed at the very least, and that was all that mattered.

 

“Find Davos”, Jon requested weakly, when they had arrived. “Tell him that we have overstayed at the Square. We ride for Winterfell today, with the exception of the men that shall remain here as a garrison”.

 

Tormund’s smile dropped at the thought of riding yet again, but the Wildling was far too stubborn to complain, and left to find Ser Davos without a second word. When he had gone, Jon slowly took off his leather doublet, to examine the wound himself.

 

A cloying smell met Jon’s nostrils, and he wrinkled his nose. The cut extended the length of his underarm, running to above the left nipple. It had festered, and the skin around it was red and swollen. When pressed, pus was forced out, and a small stream of dark blood ran down his chest. The pain grew so intense when pressed, that Jon let out a scream through his gritted teeth. He did not remember fainting, but he must have because he woke in his bed, to the sound of Ghost howling. Ser Davos was crouching over him anxiously with a Valeman maester working behind him.

 

The maester had boiled wine in a bronze pot to scour the wound, and was cleaning a sharp needle. Seeing his eyes open, the man approached with a small vial.

 

“Drink, Your Grace. It is dream wine, so that you may fall asleep again”, the maester said in a soft voice. “When you awake, I will have cleaned and sewn shut the wound. A gash like this should have been treated immediately”.

 

“No”, moaned Jon softly, “I don’t require treatment”. His eyes struggled to focus on the men that loomed above him. Davos looked surprised at his words, yet retreated slightly upon hearing them. The maester either didn’t hear him or ignored his words as a feverish ramble, and made to tilt his head back. The dreamwine was almost to his lips when Jon’s hand flicked forward, knocking the vial onto the floor. Davos looked confused at his reluctance to accept treatment, but moved forward again to help Jon rise into a sitting position.

 

“Leave us”, Jon commanded the maester bluntly. The man gave him a stricken look, yet bowed and retreated immediately. When the door closed, Jon slumped back. To add to every other miserable feeling, he now felt guilt towards the maester, who in all likelihood was only trying to be of service. But a Valeman had already tried to kill him once, and he would take no chances to allow a second attempt on his life.

 

Ser Davos was frowning as he looked at the wound. “Thats an ugly looking cut and it needs to be treated before it becomes worse. Why refuse the maester?”

 

Jon hesitated for a moment, then decided that Davos could be trusted. The loyalty of the man was unquestionable, and he had proven himself both in the Battle for the North and the siege of the Dreadfort.

 

“This wound was given to me by a Knight of the Vale”, Jon explained. “Littlefinger clearly thought the battle was a good time to have me killed, and I’m not sure how many of the Valemen I can truly trust.”

 

The eyes of the onion knight darkened, and he nodded slowly. “At least allow a Northern maester to inspect the wound. You look haggard and that gash must be grievously painful”.

 

But Jon shook his head stubbornly. “Littlefinger’s influence runs deep, and I dare not reveal the extent of my injuries. Besides, the maesters are of better use on the more seriously injured”.

 

A thought occurred to him and he looked at the onion knight speculatively. “There is a task that must be done. I need someone to ride to Winterfell before the main host arrives, to ensure my sister is safe and to keep an eye on Littlefinger before I decide what to do with him. Are you willing to do this?”.

 

“Certainly, m’lord”, said Davos at once. “I’ll ride for Winterfell immediately. But we must be cautious, the alliance with the Vale is unlikely to survive if Lord Baelish is accused of trying to kill you”.

 

Jon sighed deeply. _As much as I would like Littlefinger’s head, without the Vale we have no hope at defending ourselves from the Throne,_ he thought unhappily. _But do I meekly give in while he sends hired knives, one after the other, to kill me?_

 

“We have been here for too long, are the men ready to depart?” The onion knight nodded, and helped Jon back into his doublet.

 

They had ridden from the castle that very afternoon, with the diminished Northern host at their back. Of the four thousand riders which had rode in strength to Torrhen’s Square, only half that number made the return journey to Winterfell. The remainder of the survivors were committed to the western shores, to defend the North from any further attack that should come.

 

They made quick progress on the journey. The snowfall had thankfully not resumed, and the land remained in a half melted state, allowing the horses to make swift passage. As it was on the initial ride, the beauty of the land was revealed as they passed through the barrowlands back to the King’s Road. Yet this time, Jon took none of it in. He was trapped in his own personal hell, both feverishly hot and shivering cold at the same time, with the feeling of the dagger lingering to torture him.

 

The ride was not helping matters; the half healed wound had reopened multiple times to stain his clothing with gore and the leagues between the Square and Winterfell passed by in uneven jumps, sometimes rapidly and sometimes drawn out.

 

 _When will this accursed ride end?,_ Jon had wondered desperately after only a few days of travel. _I can’t endure forever._

 

But endure he did, if more for Sansa’s sake than his own. Finally, when Jon was convinced that he would die long before the journey’s end, they reached the King’s Road. From there it was an easy journey to Castle Cerwyn, and then Winterfell.

 

It was at Castle Cerwyn that Jon met Davos again, who had arrived at Winterfell many days beforehand, and ridden south to rejoin the approaching host. The onion knight shook his head when he saw Jon, and took him aside.

 

“Your sister appears fine, but Lord Baelish is not at Winterfell. He left the castle days before I arrived. Visiting nearby holdfasts with his men, I am told”.

 

 _So the coward has fled,_ thought Jon angrily. _He knows that I am alive, and he knows that I am coming for him. At least Sansa appears alright, but I must see her myself”._

 

Most of the host stopped at Castle Cerwyn, at which they could rest before heading to their own lands, but Jon refused to remain and set off immediately to Winterfell with all those that were willing.

 

Through that entire night they rode, yet Jon was glad that he had, for in the end they finally reached their destination. In the distance, the walls of Winterfell rose proudly over the snow covered plains. The castle was a welcome sight for the returning Northern host, who longed for a respite after the battle. From every battlement flew the grey direwolf of Stark, racing amongst the clouds on an ice white field. A wane smile touched Jon’s face upon seeing the banners, the first one that had come to him in many days. A month ago, he would have thought it a fool’s hope to see his father’s sigil upraised over the walls again, and even in his black mood the sight was able to stir his heart.

 

As he looked at the castle from afar, an unfamiliar second sigil caught his gaze as well, and the small smile on Jon’s face disappeared as quickly as it had come. The standard of a white direwolf with red eyes had been raised over the King’s tower, and ran with its brothers in the skies above.

 

The white direwolf on a grey field was a bastard’s sigil, which according to tradition was formed by the inverted colours of the true Stark sigil. It was Jon’s personal emblem, which his Lords had insisted that he uptake when he became the King in the North. In times past he might have looked at that banner and taken great pride in it; as a boy he had dreamed of being granted use of the Stark direwolf, bastard colours or no. Yet now the banner filled him with nothing but shame, and Jon found that he could not bare to look at it.

 

 _I do not deserve the direwolf,_ thought Jon with disgust. _I am no true Stark. A banner cannot change that. There is no power in this world that can change that._

 

The gates were already opened in greeting as they approached the Wintertown, and the host slowly rode inside. A cheer went up from the crowd lining the streets, who looked at Jon reverently as if he were Aegon the Conquerer reborn. Ignoring the agony, Jon forced a smile and waved with his good hand as he rode past.

 

 _They see only the White Wolf, the brave King in the North,_ Jon realised dully. _They do not see the broken man underneath, consumed by such guilt and pain. Do they realise that what happened in Torrhen’s Square was my doing? Would they cheer nearly as loudly if they knew the truth?_

 

The noise increased as they entered the castle courtyard, as the Northmen who had not ridden for the battle put up a clangour by bashing their shields with their steel. Sansa stood at the end of the yard, smiling as she watched the host approach. Her expression was warm yet betrayed very little of her thoughts. But her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in Jon, and walked swiftly up the yard to meet him. That was likely for the best, for when Jon dismounted the pain overwhelmed him and he would have fallen to the ground if Sansa had not caught him.

 

Nobody saw this, as the remainder of the host was now entering the yard, and the crowd had converged on them. Sansa moved him to arm's length and looked him up and down, with a building disapproval in her eyes. Then she closed the gap and embraced him tightly.

 

“It’s good to have you back”, she whispered softly, her breath warming Jon’s ear.

 

Jon rested his chin on Sansa’s shoulder, and pulled her closer into him. His face was buried partially in her auburn hair, which had a pleasant floral smell to it. “Are you well?” he whispered hoarsely. “Did anything happen while I was gone?”

 

“I’m fine, but are you?”, asked Sansa, disentangling herself to better look at him. “You look terrible”.

 

It was the same thing Lyanna Mormont had said at the Square, and it brought a smile to Jon’s face. _I feel terrible,_ he almost said. “I took a wound in the field, but it’s nothing that can’t wait”. He considered telling her who had given him the injury, but hesitated, deciding that there would be time for that later.

 

Sansa was shaking her head. “It cannot wait, and it isn’t good for morale if the men see you in this condition. I’ll send a maester to have a look at it”.

 

“I don’t want a maester”, said Jon firmly, though there was nothing in the world he wanted more. “All I require is simple bath to wash the wound clean, and a long rest afterwards. There are more seriously injured men, the maesters should treat them first”.

 

There was an annoyed look on Sansa’s face, and it looked as though she wanted to argue the point further. But Jon’s strength was at its end, and he was more likely to collapse in the yard than succeed in convincing Sansa otherwise.

 

“Excuse me”, he said abruptly, stifling a gasp of pain as he moved past Sansa, towards the King’s tower.

 

Once inside, he descended the stairs to the lower level, and into the bathing area. The water was steaming, as Winterfell drew its waters from hot springs deep in the ground. Jon removed his clothing slowly, and climbed into the deep stone bathtub, sighing as the water warmed and relaxed his aching muscles. But the wound stung bitterly as it was exposed to the water, and Jon gritted his teeth as layers of dried blood and grime was washed away by the soap, to reveal raw flesh.

 

Though the wound was cleansed, it was far from healed and even doused in water it continued to ooze black blood mixed with pus. His head was swimming from exhaustion and pain, and he sunk lower and lower into the water, unable to steady himself as his eyes closed of their own accord. Jon summoned his strength, yet found that it was not even enough to push himself upright, and the water now lapped around his mouth.

 

 _King Jon Snow, killed by a bathtub,_ he thought in a moment of delirious amusement, as the world turned black and the water covered his nose.

He had no idea how long he had been submerged, but it must not have been long else he would have surely drowned. The next thing he remembered was a pair of hands struggling to pull him out of the water, and the sounds of distant howling. He emerged from the tub, gasping and coughing out water, as his body was covered with a sheen of sweat.    

 

Sansa crouched behind him, her face strained with effort as she dragged him over the stone tub walls and away from the treacherous water. Naked, weak, and now shivering on the bare stone, there wasn’t much that he could do besides lean limply on her like a newborn babe. Jon’s head tilted back to rest heavily between her breasts, which were heaving from Sansa’s panic and exhaustion.

 

Through the fog of his mind, he felt vaguely embarrassed. There he was, King in the North, naked with his face buried in his sister’s bosom. Yet for the first time since he had ridden from Winterfell, Jon felt secure and at peace, and he was too tired to correct the impropriety of the situation. So he simply nestled deeper while he listened to Sansa’s heart.

 

At first it was racing, but as he listened the heart beats slowed, and her breathing became softer and less often also. Sansa said nothing for a long while, and the two sat in silence, as her chest was slowly stained by a dark patch of water. Under her dress, her small clothes were also slowly being soaked by the water, and Jon thought he could see the firm outline of her teats as a protrusion against the gown material.

 

Jon felt his manhood stiffen at the sight, and closed his eyes quickly to avoid dishonouring her. He prayed that Sansa had not seen his arousal but, a Lady as she was, it was unlikely she had been looking in that direction anyway. Still, the thought made his face red, and if it were in his power he would have broken the embrace.

 

 _I must be more feverish than I realised,_ Jon thought dimly. _Robb would box my ears if he could see me now._

 

“You should have had that wound treated”, said Sansa eventually, breaking the silence. “You swore to me that you would come back unharmed. Are you trying to kill yourself Jon?” She was staring very pointedly into the distance as she asked this, for which he was glad.

 

Jon chuckled softly, but said nothing for a long while. He felt warm, impossibly warm and was reluctant to do anything to end the moment.

 

“My fault… all mine”, spluttered Jon eventually, his voice muffled in her breasts. It felt important to explain it, though his voice sounded strange even to him. But he prayed that Sansa understood somewhat. “Tallhart… I caused it. I… deserve this. The Lady… and the little children… all my fault. I should have… died… not them”.

 

A tear rolled from his eye, invisible as it joined the growing stain on Sansa’s chest. The exhaustion was overtaking him again, suppressing even the pain. Before he knew it, Jon’s fragile grip on the world was lost yet again, and he was lulled into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed. We're getting into the romance building now, which is new territory for me. I'm afraid that for the next few weeks I'm busy, so the next chapters may be delayed a bit. But I'll do work on them whenever possible, so hopefully the delay isn't too bad. As always, comments and criticisms are greatly appreciated.


	7. Dreamwine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon recovers from his injury, whilst fighting a dazed mind and stirrings that have been forced to the forefront.

 

 

His dreams were varied, sometimes pleasant and soothing, and other times nightmarish. Jon saw images formed of such bright colours that they blinded his mind, and also scenes formed of such darkness that he wanted to cry out in fear. The visions came and went as they pleased, and Jon could seldom comprehend them, yet for some reason he knew that he must at least try.  

 

He saw a tall tower from which a bird fell of a broken heart, yet felt little grief at the passing, only fury. Of a fish denied the right to swim, vengeance in its heart as it yearned to join the fray of its kin. Of a stone wolf shedding its down, the grey fur replaced by white as snow cloaked it. Most terrible was that of a demon, crowned with fire and water, its claws upraised to the sky as if to smite the very gods themselves.

 

Those were the clearest, yet other sights there were also, images that flickered by so fast that he could barely comprehend them: burning tree, melting ice, rust-speckled sword, maiden’s thigh and red dawn.The spectres in his mind moved past him so quickly that it made him giddy.

 

_Will this ever end?,_ Jon wondered as his head spun.

 

But eventually, when the images had run their course, the vision slowed down and changed into something more solid. He found himself standing in a familiar place, in the great hall of Winterfell at a time of feasting, yet the guests were not familiar to him. Big men they were, and fierce, each wearing an iron crown with nine spikes in the imagery of longswords. Some wore rich ornaments of polished bronze, others wore silver or even cold iron, but none were adorned with gold. Elbow to elbow they sat at the tables, laughing and drinking, yet upon seeing him the mirth curdled on their faces and they went silent.

 

_The Kings of Winter,_ thought Jon with great awe and fear, as he looked them in their cold eyes. _The shades of those who were once Kings in the North, arisen again._

 

Three sat at the head of the hall, a man and his two sons. Despite the might of the men that were gathered in that room, to them was given the highest honour. Though his eldest son wore the iron crown, it was the uncrowned man who sat in the high seat of the Starks, looking down into the feasting throng as if he were a King of Kings. At their feet prowled two direwolves, an imperious looking grey one and a savage black one. The three looked at him as he approached the high table. Their eyes were so bright that Jon was forced to avert his gaze, yet that small glimpse was enough to tell him who they were, though he already knew.

 

_Father… Robb… Rickon,_ thought Jon in despair, falling to his knees before them.

 

They looked at him with a blank expression, as if expecting him to say the first words. He wanted to say something to them, and climb the stairs of the dias to embrace his fallen family. But the ground opened beneath him, and to his horror Jon found himself slowly being sucked down into the bowels of the castle.

 

“Father”, he screamed, his voice half drowned in the rabble of the feasting men. “Father, please help me”.

 

The ghost of Eddard Stark made no move to help, yet a sad smile formed on his ghostly lips. “King in the North… you called for me on the battlefield, do you remember Jon?”, asked Lord Stark. “I came down to aid you. Because you are a Stark, and you have my blood”. But there were tears in his eyes now, that trickled down his noble face, as Jon sank ever deeper. “But alas, it seems that I kept my promise too well”, he said softly, more to himself than Jon.

 

Father’s face suddenly shrunk, and Jon shouted in panic as he realised that he was falling. Yet it was not into darkness that he fell, but rather into a blinding light. Now he was abed in the Lord’s chamber of Winterfell. A woman was sitting by his bedside, watching him as he slept. Her smile was kind, and her beauty was haunting. She rose and walked to loom over him. Jon peered into her face, but found that his vision was clouded, and he could not clearly make out her features no matter how hard he tried.

 

“Jon… my poor, sweet Jon”, the woman crooned softly as she gently caressed his face. He could make out none of her face, yet he had seen it many times in his dreams, and he recognised it immediately.

 

_Mother, is it truly you?,_ wondered Jon in sorrow. He reached upwards to grab her shoulder, pulling her closer to him so that he might finally see her face. “Don’t leave me, Mother” _,_ he begged her desperately as he reached. But in truth she had already left him a long time ago. The moment his hand came into contact with her, the vision shook violently and broke.

 

Jon found himself suddenly awake, his hands still reaching feebly upwards to clutch the ghost of his mother.

 

_Only a dream. Only a dream. It was only a dream. Nothing more,_ he told himself several times in succession _._ But no matter how rapidly he repeated the mantra, there was another more powerful thought that could not be banished. _I almost had her_ , Jon thought numbly. _A second more, and I would have seen her face._

 

It hurt, many times more than the wound that he had taken on the battlefield. It shouldn’t have been so painful as he was accustomed to the disappointment, having had the very same dream many times before. But unbidden he felt hot tears form in his eyes, and trickle slowly down his face. A shadow fell across him as someone leaned over, and soft fingers gently rubbed away the tears. The person above him was shaking him slightly now, calling his name, but exhaustion was claiming Jon once more and he fell asleep in their arms.

 

How much longer he slept, Jon had no idea, but there were no further dreams. When he truly awoke, the room was lit by the muted orange tones of the dying sun. Jon opened his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings as his mind reeled from disorientation. After the barrage of colours from the fast moving visions, the world around him looked dull and grey by comparison.

 

Though he still felt as weak as a newborn and mentally drained, the pain from the wound felt better and the gash was bound by layers of clean linen bandages, that wrapped around half his bare chest as well as his left upper arm. The linen directly above the wound was stained a deep violet from some poultice buried underneath, which seemed to be causing the sharp stinging sensation that he felt. But the pain itself was much reduced, and he felt better than he had in many days.    

 

Jon realised that he was in the bed of the Lord’s chamber, just like in that final vision. There was also a woman sitting near him, her chair angled to face him as she worked at his leather cuirass with a needle and a long length of thread. He saw many stitches in the boiled leather, which repaired the damage that the armour had taken from the battle.

 

_Am I still dreaming?,_ Jon pondered tiredly as he peered at her through half closed eyes. _Will these visions never end?_

 

Yet the woman that now sat by his bedside did not have the unknowable face of his mother, but rather the delicate beauty and auburn hair of his sister. Sansa had not noticed him wake, and was humming softly as she sewed shut the many small gashes in the leather body. Jon observed her silently for a while, saying nothing.

 

His head was starting to throb dully now, while his vision remained blurred. _It is almost as if I am drunk,_ he mused silently. Jon suspected that he was under the influence of dreamwine, which maesters gave to those in their care, to induce an extended sleep. There must have been something else as well, for dreamwine caused a dreamless sleep, not the delusions he had experienced. Jon had no idea what else they had given him, but it made the dull light coming through the window enough to make his eyes hurt. His mind also felt sluggish, making it difficult to think, and Jon felt as though he were still half floating in a dream. Despite his long rest, he still felt very drowsy yet was determined not to fall asleep again. Instead, he reclined his head back on a pillow and focused on Sansa.     

 

It was peaceful watching Sansa at her needlework. Jon had always assumed that women sewed to embroider and mend clothing, yet to his amusement it seemed that needlework could be used to fix armour as well. There was a look of intense concentration on Sansa’s face as she stitched, and Jon found himself captivated and unable to look away. The more he examined her face, the more new things he found, and the longer he looked.

 

_I have never truly seen her face,_ he realised slowly, as Sansa threaded a new needle. _Not this face at least._ It was oddly true; they had spent precious little time alone in their youth, and upon their reunion at Castle Black she had already perfected that impenetrable mask which betrayed none of her thoughts.

 

_I have seen the girl with songs in her head, and I’ve seen the hardened woman. But have I seen the true Sansa?,_ he wondered.

 

In a time long past, his father had taught him how to look past such a mask, and observe men to gain a measure of their character. “Men have many secrets, and often it is unwise to pry into them too deeply”, Lord Eddard had told him as they watched two guardsmen sparring in the yard, one cold day many years ago. “Yet oftentimes it is important to understand the men around you, for these may be the very men on which your life rests on one day. A man is never more himself than when he is fighting as there is no time for pretence in those moments. So look carefully and tell me what you see.”    

 

“I don’t see anything, Father”, Jon’s younger self had replied, as he watched the men. Father had simply laughed at that, asked that he continue. Observation had taught him much over the years, and Jon had eventually become better at understanding the men around him, yet now he realised that he did not even understand his own sister.

 

He supposed that needlework for women was similar to swordplay for men, so perhaps in this brief window where her face finally betrayed her thoughts, some new understanding about Sansa might present itself to him.

 

So Jon looked at her now, fighting through his dazed mind, to take in every inch of that small face which suddenly seemed to him like that of a stranger’s. His eyes slowly crept down that short length, memorising everything, from the contour of her eyes and nose, to the small blush in her cheek and the fullness of her pink lips. There were imperfections of course, such as the fine lines of stress on her forehead and the pale shadow under her eyes, but those were products of her mistreatment by the Lannisters and the Boltons. Undoubtedly, she was the most beautiful girl in the entire North and perhaps also in the Seven Kingdoms

 

Unbidden his eyes moved downwards, following the passage of her neck, to the angular hollow at its base. He realised that he was examining and committing her entire body to memory. Why he was doing this, Jon did not know, unless it was in the hopes of discovering something that he already felt that he had missed. Still further did his eyes fall, until they fixed upon her ample breasts, which rose and fell gently with Sansa’s breathing. Jon reddened at the sight, remembering through the haze of his thoughts how, in that moment of faint, he had rested his face in her bosom until the water from his hair had soaked through her small clothes and her modesty.

 

_Fever or not, that was unworthy,_ he thought with annoyance at himself. _As her brother, it falls to me to defend her honour. Yet it appears that I am the one dishonouring her._

 

A powerful sense of shame was coiling in his stomach as he remembered more of the events in the bathing room, and it was compounded by the fact he was observing her without permission. Yet his need to know more about her overwhelmed it. Even distracted with her needle work, Sansa refused to yield up her secrets and the harder Jon searched, the more features of her body he discovered to distract him, and the less he could divine. His curiosity had only steadily increased as he observed her, and it was now tinged with a hint of frustration.

 

_She is beautiful indeed, but I already knew that,_ Jon thought annoyed. _But what is she thinking now? Is she comfortable here? Does she feel safe? What does she dream about at night? What are her fears, her delights, her desires? So many question yet I haven’t an answer to any of them._       

 

Eddard Stark had never told him how to comprehend a woman but it appeared that, compared to men, they were far harder to gain a measure of. The thought of his father increased his shame tenfold as Lord Stark would hardly have approved of this scrutiny of his eldest daughter. The frustration almost overwhelmed him, and Jon had a strong urge to simply look away then, but there was also an undeniable need to discover more, and he knew that if he broke his gaze the opportunity might be lost forever.

 

Even lower his eyes traced, passing over her flat stomach to which the material of her dress clung like a second skin, until they fixed on her slender legs which were closed politely like that of a true lady’s.  

 

_What would resting on her lap feel like?,_ wondered Jon in a reverie. _I’ve already shamed myself by laying my head in her breasts, so perhaps Sansa would not even mind by comparison, if I did._

 

As he watched her, Sansa reached down to pick something off the floor and her legs parted automatically as she did so. Her skirt was made of Northern wool, yet was light and thin. As her legs opened wide, the material covering her lap stretched, becoming taut in a triangle of fabric bound by Sansa’s spread legs. To release the tension Sansa absent-mindedly pulled at the triangle, bunching the loose material deep into her centre. The result was that the thin skirt clung tightly to her supple thighs and revealed the hidden outlines of her normally concealed body.

 

Jon’s mind went blank, and it was difficult to process the sight in front of him. He felt as if he was looking deeper into Sansa than was permitted, and was seeing more of her body than any man not her husband had a right to. Yet somehow it was impossible to look away, and his eyes drank in the sight of her. The bunched cloth had hitched the hem of Sansa’s skirt slightly upwards, and the balled material now rested between the fork of her legs.   

 

_It would be warm in there,_ Jon thought dreamily, as his eyes uncontrollably followed the contours of her innermost thigh, until they stopped at last at Sansa’s very core. _And warmer still, the further in you went. For_ _beyond the fabric would be her smallclothes, a thin silken shield guarding what is even deeper inside: her womanly mound, hot and slick with moisture._ An image came to him unprompted then, the first clear one that was able to pierce through his dreamwine addled mind. Jon saw clearly the juncture between a woman’s open legs, the pink lips of which were spread slightly apart to reveal the wetness within. Above it was planted a neat bush of soft hair... which was auburn in colour.

 

Abruptly he understood the pictures that his mind had conjured, and Jon’s face turned the deepest shade of red as blood rushed upwards to his cheeks. But he hardly noticed that for there was also a second rush of blood, but downwards rather than up. The sight of her coupled with the imagery of his befuddled mind had aroused him and, just like when he had seen Sansa’s teats through her drenched smallclothes, his cock responded by rising hard and stiff to strain forcefully against his breeches.  

 

Horror laced Jon and a powerful sense of self-disgust filled him. He turned his head away, wrenching his eyes away from Sansa and set his thoughts to other matters, dutifully blocking out the vision which had so stirred him.

 

_First it was the fever, now it is the damned dreamwine that suppresses my judgement,_ Jon thought as he took in deep breaths of air, waiting for his arousal to slowly subside. _Under its influence, I am no better than a common drunk or whore-seeker. Yet dreamwine or not, these are unforgivable thoughts and this… stirring... is especially inexcusable. It will never happen again,_ he promised himself angrily.

 

Though Jon had tried to be discreet, the movement of his head must have tried alerted Sansa, for she suddenly paused in her needlework to look at him. He tried to pretend that he was asleep, but it appeared that Sansa was not fooled, for she set aside her work and walked slowly to him.

 

“Jon”, she whispered softly, kneeling beside the bed. “Are you finally awake?”.

Reluctantly, Jon turned his head to meet her eyes. _Does she sense my shame and disgrace?,_ he wondered as Sansa peered at him. _Surely she must, it is likely written plain across my face for the world to see._

 

Sansa certainly appeared to be searching for something, as she looked at him for a long time, saying nothing. Jon held her gaze, and noted that her face was set in that familiar and impenetrable mask that betrayed little of her thoughts. Indeed, her eyes alone were now the sole window into her mind, whereas mere seconds ago it had been her entire body. It made Jon feel sad, to think that she would not reveal her true self even for him.

 

_Perhaps that is for the best,_ came the sharp thought. _Look what happened when you tried to see the real Sansa. She is far better off protected from the likes of you._

 

There was thinly disguised concern written on her face, as Sansa looked him up and down. She reached over to examine the bandages on his chest, before undoing the topmost ones to readjusting the linen more securely. As she did so, the covers fell away to reveal his poorly suppressed arousal, but Jon managed to hide his shame once more while Sansa was looking in the other direction.  

 

_I am undeserving of your affection,_ he thought with a drowsy disgust. The bearskin covers that were draped over him were heavy, for which he was profoundly glad as Sansa was not able to see what was below. Still, he wished that she had kept her distance, as every time Sansa’s eyes trailed downwards there was a fresh surge of blood to stiffen him again. Jon could swear that she was able see through the blanket and gaze plainly at his hardened disgrace.

 

“How are you feeling?”, Sansa asked quietly, still working at the wrappings. “You were asleep for a very long time”.

 

_Soiled, unworthy and filled with self-loathing._ That was what he wanted to tell her, yet Jon forced himself to speak in a lighter tone. “Better than I was before, and the pain appears to be less”, he said finishing with a small smile that he knew didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

Sansa did not return the smile, and was looking at him gravely, studying him as he had done not so long ago. “Are you sure?”, she asked quietly. “Is there nothing else you feel?”

 

Jon frowned at that. Physically, but with one hard exception, he felt far better than he had done. Mentally, it was of course an entirely different story, however Jon did not care to tell her about that. But the look that she was giving him was wary, as if she didn’t fully believe his words. _What has made her so worried?_ he wondered.

 

“I am feeling fine”, Jon assured her softly. “Has something happened in the few hours I was asleep?”

 

Something about what he said was vaguely amusing to her, as it got him a ghost of a smile from Sansa. “ _Few_ hours?” she repeated softly. “You were asleep for a week and a half, not just for a few hours”.

 

The realisation slowly registered through the daze. _A week and a half? That’s impossible,_ thought Jon vaguely. His shock must have shown on his face for Sansa chuckled slightly, and took his hand in both of her own.

 

“You woke a few times, I think. I saw your eyes open slightly once or twice, but when I called your name they shut on their own. One time I found you with your arms grasping at the air, but you fell asleep when I shook you”.

 

“What happened while I was asleep?” demanded Jon. “Tell me everything, starting from when you pulled me out of the tub”. Sansa’s face was still, but a slight blush formed in her cheeks at the mention of the bathtub, and Jon did not miss it. _She is as embarrassed about that as I am,_ he thought, reddening himself. _Did she glimpse at my arousal afterall?_ But that was a question for another time, though Jon rather felt that he would not like the answer. Now however, he needed to know what had happened.

 

Sansa looked at him carefully, before she began. “When we carried you up from the bathing area, you were feverish and in great pain. You were shivering yet your skin was burning at the same time, and… I feared that you might die from the wound”. She broke off abruptly at that, and took in a deep breath before continuing. “The wound was scoured with boiling wine, but that wasn’t enough and the maester was convinced that the arm would have to be cut off to stop the corruption spreading”.

 

A chill ran down Jon’s spine as she said this, and he fought the exhaustion to fix Sansa with a sharp look. “Who was this man?” he demanded, “I told you that I wanted no maester to treat the wound”.

 

“He was a Valeman, the maester sworn to House Corbray I think”, she said flicking her hair in annoyance. “And I had no choice in the matter as the wound was well past my care. You could have _died_ , do you understand that Jon?” demanded Sansa angrily.

 

_I understand well enough,_ he thought darkly. _A Corbray maester tried to finish what a Corbray Knight had started. Are all Valemen such traitors or just those from House Corbray? Can I trust any of them?_ The wound had been grievously painful, but was not so badly corrupted as to remove the entire arm. Of that, he was absolutely certain. _This man might have tried to maim me, but perhaps he has proof that Littlefinger was behind the attempt on my life,_ Jon realised slowly. _I will need to find and question him soon._

 

But Sansa was now looking at him with hurt written plainly on her face, so Jon brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it softly. “I’m sorry. I know that you were only doing the best that you could. You saved my life, not once but twice, and I’m not ungrateful”.

 

A small smile returned to Sansa’s face and she nodded slightly, though that small blush returned to her cheeks again. “I refused his suggestion to remove the arm, you know”, she said with a touch of pride. “But I wondered whether it was the right choice later, as your breathing became fainter and fainter, and your skin became cold though the wound itself burned. We thought that you might not live the night... but a bird came to save you”.

 

Jon frowned upon hearing that. The dreamwine surely must have been twisting her words, for they made little sense to him. “You say a bird saved me?” he repeated slowly, not trusting his ears.

 

That got an actual laugh from Sansa, who giggled loudly at his obvious confusion. Jon smiled as well, but for a different reason. When she laughed her carefully constructed mask fell away entirely, and her face lit up to look as radiant as the sun.

 

“You heard correctly”, she said still chortling. “The bird came half dead itself, but clutching at a small clay pot which inside had a thick purple liquid. The maester thought it a similar but more potent version of the ‘shade-of-the-evening’, which is consumed by the warlocks of the far east to give them visions. There was an unusual scroll as well, I saved it for you”.

 

She reached over to the nearby table, before giving him the curled piece of parchment. Jon saw nothing special about it initially, but when he unrolled the scroll he realised what was so strange. The message within was short and was written in a long elegant style, but it was the ink that caught his attention, as it was a fiery crimson in colour.

 

_Drink and be cleansed. May the Lord of Light protect you,_ the message said simply.

 

_The red woman,_ Jon realised with a chill. _She saw my death in her flames, and sent something to prevent it._ He supposed that he ought to be grateful to Melisandre for saving his life, but what he felt instead was a growing anger. It seemed that he had an answer for the visions and the improper glances. Dreamwine did not fog the mind, or cause hallucinations, so this substance must have been responsible for his stupor.

 

‘ _Visions’ indeed. I have had them plenty,_ thought Jon as he stewed quietly. _This foul liquid has tainted my mind and honour._   

 

Sansa seemed to read his displeasure. “Ser Davos begged me not to give it to you, but there was no other option”, she said softly as her eyes silently asked him to understand. “You screamed and whimpered in your sleep as I fed you the liquid, and doused the wound in it for good measure. But the very next day the corruption had retreated and the cut looked clean. Was the maester right, did you see anything while you were asleep?”

 

_I have seen more than I bargained for,_ thought Jon with disgust. He felt certain that he was still under the influence of this liquid, which likely explained his sudden fixation on Sansa. But he shook his head.

 

“I had a few dreams I think, but I can’t remember much of them”, he said. Of course, the dreams themselves had been harmless, but it was what came afterwards that shamed him.

 

Yet in a strange way Jon felt lighter in the knowledge that he had been fed this substance. _It is the liquid that has addled my mind and inflamed me. When its effects are faded, I should be normal again,_ he thought with relief.

 

“So nothing else happened while I was asleep?” Jon asked, now with a wry smile. “Perhaps the Lannisters have finally decided that the North is more trouble than it’s worth, and we are being given a respite”. It was amusing now, yet he knew that this fragile peace could not last forever. _The best I can hope for is one final harvest before winter truly comes, and to keep our people out of the war as long as possible. At least until it actually poses a threat to the North._

 

His sister did not look amused however. “We are not under attack anymore”, she began slowly. “But there have been things that occurred while you were asleep. It appears that Euron has grown weary of the North, and has sailed from the Iron Islands with his full power to pillage the Reach. The Lannisters have not been idle either, and are on the move”.

 

She bit her lip slightly at that last part, when she looked at him. _There is something that she is not telling me,_ Jon realised slowly. “Sansa, what is it?” he asked sharply. “Are the Lannisters marching on the North?” Through the pang of sorrow that he felt for the men that would die in that battle, Jon also felt a hint of relief that this Southern war might soon end. _Let them come,_ he thought fiercely. _The Neck can defend the North against any army they throw at us._

 

“No, they aren’t marching against the North”, said Sansa quickly, but her words were measured and careful. “Besides, it is nothing you need worry about. Just focus on recovering and I’ll see to the rest”.

 

_What aren’t you telling me?,_ Jon wondered darkly, but her face was in a stubborn set now, and Jon could tell that he would gain no more information from her. In truth he was somewhat glad to not be burdened with any more information while his mind was in this befuddled state.

 

When Sansa realised that she had somehow managed to convince him with little argument, she smiled with amusement. “You must be hungry after your rest. I’ll find you some food from the kitchens”, she said rising.

 

She leaned over him before she left and pulled him gently into an embrace. The gesture was likely to comfort him, yet it had the opposite effect. Her breasts bounced as they were moved into full view of his clouded eyes, and despite everything Jon was swept with the powerful urge to once again pillow his head in them. He swiftly closed his eyes to the sight, but not before his manhood had stiffened yet again. His entire body froze at her touch, and Jon dug his nails hard into his palm, fighting the urge to simply flee the room.

 

Sansa did not appear to notice his reaction, and left quickly after that. When she had gone, Jon let out a long groan, feeling once again the crushing pressure of his tight breeches which only barely suppressed his arousal. _The sooner I am off the influence of this shade-of-the-evening, the better_ , he thought. But until then it appeared that he would have to contend with a cock that was raging to be free of its confines despite his promise to control it. _But I will control myself,_ he thought fiercely.

 

Yet as he had learned, that was easier said than done.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little different more the rest (and far more explicit). I did have a slow plan for Jon to become aware of Sansa, but upon rereading I thought it was a little boring. And somewhere along the line it occurred to me that I could chuck Jon naturally in the deep end if he was hallucinatory. Let me know what you think about the explicit stuff. Was I descriptive enough or too descriptive? Also I'm afraid there'll likely be no update next week as my schedule is pretty packed. As always, comment and criticisms are always appreciated.


	8. To Defend a Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon re-involves himself in the matters of the North, and receives important news from the south.

 

He heard the raised voices long before he had come into sight of their source. The sound echoed off the ancient stones of the castle wall, until it felt like the men causing it were standing beside him. Jon winced as the loud noise hurt his ears, which felt strange from days without proper use. He recognised the emphatic voice of Lord Cerwyn, the boom of Lord Manderly’s speech and the proud Southron tones of Lord Royce. There was another voice as well, the softer tone of a woman struggling to be heard over the men.

 

Jon sighed deeply as he approached the chamber, Ghost padding silently beside him. He had dealt with more than his fair share of quarreling Lords and from the tone of their voice it appeared that the argument was more than just a petty disagreement. The Lords would not be expecting him, as Sansa would have likely told them that he was resting. But the effects of the red woman’s potion seemed to have worn off and with the daze lifted from his mind, he knew it was time to re-involve himself in the governance of the North.        

 

 _Put on your crown,_ Jon told himself tiredly. _You have slept long enough, and now it is time for you to be a King again._ But having only recently gathered his wits from the dreamwine, Jon was not looking forward to them being tested by the Lords.

         

The men that guarded entry into the chamber bowed at sight of him, and stepped aside to grant him entry. The door swung open quietly, but Jon did not enter immediately, standing instead by the frame to observe what was occurring. Sansa was trying to placate the Lords, who were so consumed in their argument that they took little heed of her. In the background, Ser Davos and Lady Mormont were peering at a large map of Westeros, pointing at a marker of King’s Landing but also at the Riverlands.

 

Tormund was sitting on a low chair, drinking deeply as he watched the two men bellow at each other with amusement. The large Wildling caught his eye, and rose with a roar of greeting, throwing aside the almost empty flagon which clattered loudly on the floor. The room quietened as he did so, and the Lords were distracted long enough to see their King in the doorway.

 

“Hah, so the King Crow isn’t dead afterall”, said Tormund grinning. “I wondered if that witches piss had killed you. I came to your room a few times to make sure you hadn’t died on us, only to see your eyes closed every time. They told me you were sleeping, but what kind of man sleeps for ten days while his sister does all the work?”

 

A few of the Lords chortled at that but Jon smiled at the truth in his words. As much as Tormund’s loud voice made his ears ache, it was good to see him again. “Perhaps a Wildling man?” he asked laughing. “I’m sure you would not mind being tended to while in bed”.

 

Tormund’s grin widened and he walked towards him. “Tried that once with a woman of mine. She said that if I didn’t get up and hunt, she’d split my head open while I was asleep. T’was a shame, she was a fine one too. Kissed by fire and everything, and gods she had the reddest hair between her legs”.

That got a gale of bawdy laughter from the other men, and Tormund embraced him tightly with all the strength of a bear. Jon grimaced as his wound twinged sharply with pain but laughed as well, though could not stop his face reddening slightly. He was reminded for the dozenth time of his improper thoughts regarding what was between Sansa’s thighs, and yet again the shame came rushing back. The effects of the shade of the evening had long since faded, but to Jon’s dismay the memory of what he had dreamt lingered long afterwards to fill him with a stirring that warred with his self-disgust.

 

 _If I could only talk to Sansa and even beg her forgiveness, perhaps it would not bother me so,_ Jon thought wearily, avoiding Sansa’s eyes as she smiled at them. _I can hardly look at her now. But she doesn’t need to be burdened by my disgrace, and in time all this will subside._

 

The big man had not noticed his sudden discomfort, and forcefully pulled him into the room. The other Lords nodded politely as he entered. In the sudden silence that followed, Jon took the opportunity to look each man in the eyes and gauge their mood. There was some clear disagreement on some matter, that much was obvious, but besides that the men looked well enough. One who did not meet his gaze was a young guardsman in the far corner of the room. Tormund’s lewd story seemed to have given the stripling improper ideas, for he was focused entirely on Sansa, who had now joined Lyanna Mormont at the map. Behind her and thinking himself unnoticed, his eyes were trailing down the arch of her back until they fixed lustily on the soft curve of her arse.

 

A sudden fury filled Jon, and beside him Ghost snarled lowly. The guard was startled out of his reverie, and looked in his direction at last. Jon kept his face perfectly still, not letting his anger show, despite his thoughts roiling black with rage. He pinned the callow youth with a long and deadly gaze, conveying the extent of his displeasure without even a single word.  

 

 _Look at her that way again, boy, and I will have your eyes ripped out,_ he thought vehemently. It was not entirely an empty threat either and Jon was half tempted to at least throw him in the dungeons for a few days, to teach him respect. The youth must have realised his peril, for his eyes dropped to the floor and he shivered slightly. Jon allowed him to break gaze, yet continued to look at the lad for a long moment afterwards.

 

“Leave us”, Jon commanded bluntly, looking at the other guards in the room. The men turned immediately and left, taking with them their young, now white-faced companion, who did not dare lift his face until the door had closed firmly behind him.

 

When they had gone, Jon walked over to join Sansa at the map, gesturing for the other Lords to gather as well. “Tell me what has happened, my Lords”, he requested. “I was told that the North was not under attack”. At this he looked at Sansa questioningly, for it was she that had given him that piece of news.

 

“I told you the truth about us not being under attack”, Sansa insisted. “But I also said that the Lannisters were on the move, and they were, though back then we did not know where they were marching”.

 

“So what has changed now?”, Jon asked confused, though with some relief that the Throne had not yet ordered an attack against the North.

 

It was Ser Davos who answered, still staring at the map with a frown on his face. “Now it seems that the Lannisters have sent an army back into the Riverlands. Some riders were sent as far as the Twins, where they stopped briefly. We wondered if they might soon march on the North. But that appeared not to be their intention, for the host marched south again but this time bolstered with men from House Frey”.

 

The very mention of the Freys was enough to tighten Lord Manderly’s face with anger, but he kept his silence, though his hands curled into fists with a poorly concealed rage.

 

 _Manderly feels the same fury that I did when Rickon fell,_ Jon noted as he eyed the Lord quietly. _The Freys butchered his son years_ _ago at the Red Wedding, yet his need for vengeance has not dulled with time. If anything, it has only grown more fierce and desperate._

 

“How many men do they have”, asked Jon turning his attention away from the Lord and back to the map, as he tried to roughly predict where this army might be encamped.

 

Sansa shrugged at that. “We don’t have much information about that, and what little we do have comes from merchants and gossips who have anchored at White Harbour after sailing from the south. Some say only two thousand men are marching, others think five thousand”.

 

 _Both of those numbers are low,_ thought Jon. _The Freys alone have three thousand men at their command, and the Lannisters can still field up to forty thousand. And that doesn’t include the power of the Riverlords who have submitted to the Queen._ Something here did not make sense, yet Jon could not work it out. Riverrun and the lands by the Trident had been brought into the fold of the Iron Throne well before the Battle for Winterfell, so why now were men marching suddenly marching in the Riverlands, when the entire south was aflame with war?

 

He asked Davos as much, yet the onion knight could give him no better answer. “It appears that they are building a host for something, yet we still do not know for what. The last raven we received was four days ago, much could have happened since then. Yet what is certain is that the Northmen defending the Neck in Moat Cailin have seen no trace of the Lannisters, and neither have the Crannogmen of the marshes”.

 

“But they are clearly arming themselves for an attack”, Lord Manderly exclaimed loudly, unable to keep his silence for any longer. “The Riverlands were forced to bow to the Kingslayer, and are now part of the Throne whether we like it or not. Now they gather their forces by command of the Lannisters. Mark my words, soon they will move against us and we must strike immediately, or else find ourselves besieged from multiple fronts”.

 

Lord Royce shook his head at that. “The army is too far south of the Trident to be marching on the North. No, my lord, they are marching against the Vale itself. For what else is there to march on, if not the Bloody Gate that defends the land of the Arryns? Still, I agree that we must send men to check this threat before it gets any larger.”   

 

“Attacking the Vale with five thousand men?” asked Lord Cerwyn, looking at Royce incredulously. “The Bloody Gate has guarded the Mountains of the Moon against armies ten times that size. Even the Kingslayer is not so foolish as to try conquering the Vale without the entire power of the royal army. What is more likely is that they are simply garrisoning the castles of the Riverlands with men to ensure that the Riverlords do not rebel along with the North”.

 

The Lords resumed their arguing, each convinced that his point was the true one and that the others were mistaken.

 

 _Lord Cerwyn’s idea seems the most likely,_ mused Jon as he eyed the men quietly. _The host is too small to attack the North or Vale, but it is large enough to garrison many of the castles in the Trident. Yet what has caused this sudden marching, when the Riverlands are at peace_

 

Jon looked up and happened to glance at Sansa’s face, though it was slightly turned away from him. It was composed yet he could see a hint of worry deep in her eyes. _She knows or at least suspects the reason for all this,_ he realised slowly. Sansa turned to see him looking at her, and held the gaze though her cheeks reddened slightly as she likely guessed at his thoughts. Jon held his hand up for silence, and Lords eventually quietened down.

 

“Tell me what you think about all this” he requested Sansa quietly, holding onto her eyes for as long as possible. Through them he could see her pleasure at being consulted, despite no trace of that reaching her face.

 

Sansa tapped at the table restlessly, before pointing at the map. “I do not believe that either the North or the Vale is in danger yet. As Lord Manderly and Lord Royce have said, the army is low in men and encamped too far south. There is truth to what Lord Cerwyn says as well, and perhaps they are merely consolidating the power of the Trident. But we cannot rule out them marching on us later, so we must defend ourselves in the meantime”.

 

Jon nodded in agreement to that. “How should we should do that?”, he asked, now looking at the map. The Riverlands were half a Kingdom away from Winterfell, yet near enough to be of concern especially if the Riverlords should join the Lannisters.

In response Sansa tapped at a marker in the Neck that indicated Moat Cailin, the ancient stronghold of the Starks which single-handedly made the crossing of an army into the North impossible.

 

“We increase the garrison size at Moat Cailin. There are already a thousand men there, perhaps that should be increased to two thousand. Also the Bloody Gate in the Vale could be reinforced as well”. At this she looked at Lord Royce, who nodded his assent, before continuing. “With two armies at both the Moat and the Bloody Gate, should one come under siege it will be an easy matter for the second to surround the invaders and defeat them”. She looked up then, and this time wasn’t able to hide her smile.

 

 _This is a plan I might have came up with myself,_ thought Jon proudly as he smiled at her _. It will allow us to defend ourselves well should the Lannisters march._ Though he was impressed at Sansa’s idea there was a tinge of sadness mixed in with it. _It seems only yesterday that Sansa was a girl, who would have laughed at the thought of ordering armies. But today she is a woman, who doesn’t shy away from command,_ he thought sadly.

 

“I believe it could work”, Jon agreed out loud. “We must defend ourselves against a potential attack, yet the men are of far better use in gathering the harvest for winter rather than being committed to the south”. He looked at Lord Manderly as he said this, wordlessly imploring the man to see the reason behind the plan. The Lord’s face was now expressionless, yet Jon could sense the anger boiling near the surface.

 

Manderly looked at him blankly for a long moment before letting out a long sigh and much of the anger drained away as he did so.

 

“It is a good plan, Your Grace”, he agreed softly but a touch grudgingly. Jon looked around the room to gauge reaction. Lady Mormont nodded her silent approval, as did Lord Glover and the others. The Lords Cerwyn and Royce looked less pleased, yet like Manderly they consented as well.

 

“The matter is settled then”, said Jon simply. “I will send the orders to garrison Moat Cailin as soon as possible. My Lords, if you’ll excuse us, I would like to talk with my sister”. The Lords bowed at that and slowly filed out of the room, leaving just Sansa alone with him.

 

When the last one had left through the door, Jon sunk into a chair with a groan, as a sudden wave of lethargy struck him. Though his wound felt better, it was far from healed and the after effects of the dreamwine still lingered faintly to tire him. Sansa was looking at him with concern, but Jon made a brusque gesture with his hand in an indication that he was fine.

 

“You did very well back there”, he said smiling. “That was a good plan”.

 

Sansa smiled as well, and walked away from him to look out the window. “I’ve no experience in battle but I had a few days to think about it, and I asked a few of the Lords for their opinion. I wasn’t sure whether you would wake up in time to command, but I didn’t think the Lords would have appreciated us doing nothing either”.

 

“You thought right”, laughed Jon quietly. They lapsed into a companionable silence after that yet held their positions for a long time, neither saying a word. Sansa stood with her back towards him as she gazed at the plains of Winterfell through the window, seemingly deep in thought. Jon wondered at that but made no comment, though he kept his gaze on her. Unclouded sunlight, which was becoming rarer these days, was streaming through the glass panes and it caught in her auburn hair, causing it to shine brightly. Jon watched her blurred reflection in the glass, taking in how relaxed Sansa’s face looked and noted how her eyes closed, as the precious sunlight warmed her face.  

 

 _The true Sansa,_ thought Jon smiling softly as he drowned in the reflection. _Sansa as she could have been without this damned war._ Abruptly he realised that he was observing her, as he had recently done in the Lord’s chamber, committing this foreign face of hers to memory. _I should look away now,_ thought Jon wryly. _If I gaze longer I might regret it._ Yet the opportunities to observe Sansa without her mask were fleeting, and as much as wanted to Jon could not bring himself to turn away.

 

So he held his gaze, following the faint outline of her cheekbones in the glass and the slight smile dancing on her lips. For the longest time her face was all that he looked at, and Jon half prayed that the moment would end before he could go any further. Yet Sansa appeared content to simply stand there, and the moment did not end.

 

 _Now comes the test, to see whether I am still improperly stirred despite feeling free of the red woman’s substance,_ Jon realised. But test or not, there was still an undeniable need to understand Sansa and despite himself, Jon felt his gaze shift lower. He broke off from the reflection of her face and focused instead on the back of her bare neck, following it to her small shoulders which seemed less tense now. Slowly his eyes moved downwards, guided by the faint outline of her shoulder blades though the gown, until they reached the arch of her back. Still lower he gazed, until his eyes fixed on the pronounced curve of her bottom.

 

For a long moment Jon thought he had passed the test then, as his manhood did not stir at the sight. Had he ended the observation there it might have put an end to his stirrings, yet his eyes lingered longer than they should have and his sudden relief was not to last for very long. As he watched, Sansa happened to shift her position and now leaned slightly over the windowsill. Her right leg parted from the left, and the knee was bent to rest gently on the wall leaving only the toes of that foot in contact with the floor. Her arse jutted out towards Jon, almost as if she wanted him to look at it.

 

The skirt material, which had once loosely held her legs, now went tense and clung to her figure tightly. From his vantage behind her, the tautness in the clothing revealed the cleft between her firm buttocks. Worse, the light from the window was somehow able to penetrate the thin material of her skirt and small clothes alike, so that he could see bare skin through them. For the second time his eyes uncontrollably moved up the smooth curve of her parted thighs, until Jon gazed up into the junction between her legs in which lay her sex. It was a shadow buried deep within, nothing more, yet the sight of it coupled with her pale skin underneath made Jon feel as if Sansa was naked in front of him.

 

Almost predictably, the blood rushed under his skin and a tension was forming in his breeches, forcing Jon to cover himself with the free edge of his cloak. _How am I any better than that guardsman who was looking at Sansa?,_ he wondered ashamed. _No, I am far worse. I ought to rip my own eyes out, rather than his. That would at least put an end to this._ Dismay was filling him, and Jon clenched at the arms of his chair tightly as he fought to control himself. _Has that potion not worn off yet?,_ he wondered desperately. _Will it ever wear off?_

 

He tore his gaze away from the hint of her mound, yet was unable to entirely leave her body so fixed his eyes on her hips, which were of a medium width and famed her legs nicely, while he waited for his arousal to subside somewhat.

 

 _Good hips for childbearing,_ observed Jon absentmindedly. In time, when she had recovered from the cruelty she had suffered, Sansa would take a husband from some great House and give him heirs. _Now that I am no longer going south, I will at least be present for their birth,_ thought Jon. Yet the thought of the nephews and nieces that he might one day hold did not give him as much pleasure as it should have, and instead there was a slight tightness in his chest.

 

 _If she marries, Sansa might not even live at Winterfell anymore,_ realised Jon sadly. _Her own mother, Catelyn Tully, left the Riverlands for fifteen years and never returned there until Father died._

 

The prospect of that parting left an ache in his heart. He had grown used to leaning his burdens on Sansa somewhat, and the thought of losing her in time was not a pleasant one. Jon looked upwards at Sansa’s face now, and suddenly the relaxed look on her face pained rather than gladdened him. _One day you’ll leave,_ he thought dully. _As Father did and Ygritte did, as well as all our brothers and our sister and even my own mother. I wouldn’t grudge you that, as unlike me there’s still a chance that you could be made whole again, but I would miss you. Perhaps that is my fate, to sit as King in a castle of ghosts while the living seek happiness elsewhere._  

 

Sansa turned around then. “Jon, what is it?”, she asked, the smile slipping from her face as she took in his expression.

 

Jon only shook his head, unable in truth to accurately put words into what he was feeling. He knew it was a foolish reaction, as any parting between them was likely far away, yet the thought still succeeded in draining what remained of his energy. Sansa made to touch his shoulder, but he caught her hand midway and gently brought the back of it to his lips.

 

“You’ve done a lot for me over these past few days”, said Jon hiding his thoughts behind a smile. “I just wanted you to know that I’m grateful for everything”.

 

That lit Sansa’s face again and she leaned over his chair to embrace him while seated. Her breasts moved upwards as she did so, to rest on his shoulder. They would have been easy to avoid, yet Jon found himself resting his cheek on Sansa’s bosom anyway. Only a few minutes ago the feeling might have set his cock to raging, and he might have shifted away in embarrassment. Now however, he needed the contact and his arms found her upper back and pressed Sansa against him tightly, relishing the sudden warmth on his body.

 

It was Sansa that broke that embrace, and something was changed in her face as she did so. She peered into his eyes for a second but straightened without comment. “Those orders for Moat Cailin should be sent off immediately. Go downstairs and have some food, I can handle this”.

 

With that she swept away from the room, leaving him alone. Jon sat there for a long time, staring into the distance yet thinking of nothing. In the far corner, Ghost uncurled from his rest and padded over to him. Jon scratched behind the direwolf’s ears, before standing himself.

 

“Do direwolves live as long as men?”, he asked Ghost. “Or in a few years will I be saying farewell to you as well?” If the wolf knew the answer it revealed nothing, and merely gazed at him with its wide red eyes. Jon sighed as he made his way out of the room as well. They were at war, and there were far more important things to worry about, so he put the thought out of his mind.

 

Half way down the stairs to the great hall, he encountered Ser Davos. The onion knight had a worried expression on him, and beckoned Jon closer as he approached. They moved into a quiet corridor which had not been taken by visitors to the castle, and entered an empty chamber.

 

“I’ve made enquiries on Lord Baelish’s whereabouts”, said Davos quietly, as the door closed behind them. “But it seems that none of the Valemen know where he has gone. We were told that he visiting nearby holdfasts, yet the men that I’ve sent swear that his party left days ago, though nobody knows where he has gone”.

 

Jon frowned at that, wondering where Littlefinger could have gone. “Is it possible that he has simply returned to the Vale”. That would be a good move for Baelish, as Jon would have no influence over him when under the protection of the Vale lords.

 

But Davos was shaking his head. “He is reported to be travelling west, not east to the Vale. Besides, the only way to the Vale from the North is to ride through Moat Cailin or a sail by ship from White Harbour. If he had done either, we would at least know of his location. No, he is still in the North”.

 

 _This makes little sense,_ thought Jon. _If he is in the North, why doesn’t he simply return to Winterfell. Even here, surrounded by my own sworn men, I cannot touch him unless I want to end the alliance with the Vale and he likely knows that. Still, he cannot evade me for long, and if he visits any other castle we will hear about it._

 

“Perhaps he means to visit the Wall”, Jon managed lightly. “It would save me the effort, as I fully intend on sending him there in exile, once I’ve proven his guilt in trying to have me killed”.

 

Davos smiled at that, but it did not reach his eyes which were still anxious. “There’s other news as well. I’ve found that Valeman maester you were asking for, the one that tried to cut off your arm.

He appeared well yesterday, and I asked him to come treat you in your chambers today so that you might question him in secret”.

 

“He _appeared_ well yesterday _?”,_ repeated Jon with a chill running through him. “What of today? Has he fled like Littlefinger as well?”

 

The look that Davos gave him was all Jon needed to answer his own question, yet the onion knight spoke the words all the same. “No m’lord, he was found dead this morning. I had a Northern maester check the body but there were no signs of struggle or marks of violence. It appears that he simply passed away in his sleep”.

 

 _Killed before I could talk with him,_ realised Jon numbly. But the numbness was quickly replacing itself with anger. In a wordless fury, Jon turned around to strike at the hard stone wall with his fist. His hands were gloved in thick leather gauntlets, which was lucky as the blow would have broken his fingers otherwise. Still, the impact jarred his knuckles and made unfurling his fingers painful. Jon hardly noticed the pain, so frustrated was he.

 

“So we still have no knowledge that links Littlefinger and Corbray Knight who tried to kill me, the only man that might have helped us is dead, and Littlefinger himself has vanished into thin air”, listed Jon angrily. “To make things even worse there is also a killer in the castle, one who is impossible to find unless we reveal what happened or throw out all the Valemen”.

 

“Why _don’t_ you reveal what happened?” asked Ser Davos quietly. “Lord Royce might listen, and it is clear he detests Littlefinger. The Valemen have loyalty to him, so if he is convinced perhaps we can keep the alliance and bring Lord Baelish to justice”.     

 

But Jon shook his head at that, though in truth he had considered it. “Royce might listen but then again he might not. We have no proof that it was nothing more than a matter of a rogue Knight. But even if he does believe us, the men under his command are not from his House alone. Redfort, Waynwood, Hunter, Corbray and a dozen more, they all sent men that still remain loyal to their own Lords, and those Lords are sworn to House Arryn alone. If what Sansa tells me is true, Littlefinger controls Robin Arryn absolutely, and one word from him could mean the end of their support. Should that happen we will have no chance against the Lannisters”.  

 

He sighed and moved to the window, opening it slightly to breathe in the cold, fresh air that blew in from across the plains. “As much as I’m loathe to admit it, we are defeated in this matter. At least until we can find proof that cannot be ignored”.

 

Now that the window was open, Jon could hear an uproar in the yard that lay twenty feet underneath him. Men were calling loudly to each other and a warhorn was blown loudly, signalling the raising of the portcullis of the castle. A party of men, around two dozen in number, were waiting for entry underneath. They were garbed in the Southron fashion, and Jon wondered if they were Valemen. One of the men carried a great standard which had the image of a silver bird, though from a distance it could not made it out clearly.

 

 _Is it Littlefinger?,_ he wondered, the anger rising again. _His sigil is also a bird, a silver Mockingbird. If he has truly returned, I might rip him apart here and now, and our Vale alliance can be damned._ The men had now begun to ride into the castle and Jon wordlessly turned around and strode for the door, Davos following him. They descended the stairs, and walked swiftly to the great hall of Winterfell. Men were already gathering in the hall as he entered and seated himself on the high seat of the Starks. Sansa entered a few moments afterwards and seated herself at his side, her face betraying nothing, yet something stirred in her eyes.

 

The visitors entered the hall slowly and with a wary caution, eying the Wildlings especially as if they thought they would come under attack at any moment. _This is not Littlefinger or his men,_ realised Jon quickly. _These are not even Valemen._  

 

The men had now started down the hall, and were better visible. They were led by a tall Lord with brown hair streaked with white. Though an older man, he was still very handsome, with piercing blue eyes that took in his surroundings without letting slip any of his thoughts. At his side walked a younger man, his son most likely, that held the Lord’s large standard. Ten foot tall was the standard pole, and from it proudly flew a silver eagle, its wings outstretched on a field of deep purple. A few of his Lords shifted in recognition upon seeing the man, yet Jon was certain that this was not anyone he had met before.

 

Sansa leaned into him urgently, moving her lips to Jon’s ear. “This is Lord Mallister who was once Robb’s Bannerman when he was at war in the Riverlands”, she breathed quietly.

 

The Lord Mallister had reached the end of the hall, and was eying them quietly. Then he knelt at their feet and behind him, his men knelt as well. “I am Lord Jason of House Mallister, once your brother’s loyal subject when he was King in the North”, said the Lord clearly. “I come with the loyalty of my House, bearing also a message from the other Riverlords”.

 

 _A message?,_ wondered Jon confused. _Are the Riverlands going to declare war against us?_ “I am Jon Snow, King in the North, and I welcome you to Winterfell with my sister, Sansa of House Stark”, he replied solemnly. “Rise, my Lord”.

 

When the Lord had risen, Jon continued. “I confess, I did not expect to hear from the Riverlands. Last I heard, your Lord, Edmure Tully, was captive of the Freys and Riverrun was taken by the Lannisters”.

 

Lord Mallister inclined his head at that. “It was as you say. Yet much has happened in a shorter time than could be believed. Lord Edmure has escaped the Freys with his family. He has rallied the Riverlords to his cause, and many have already thrown off the shackles of the Lannisters. My Lord of Tully vows that he will not rest until the Freys are defeated and Riverrun itself is back in his control”.

 

At this there was a cheer, led by many of the Lords who had fought by Lord Mallister when Robb had lead them into battle. Loudest of all cheered Lord Manderly, who rejoiced at the thought of the Freys being overthrown. There were smiles on every face, and beside him Sansa looked pleased as well. Yet Jon did not smile, and a sudden foreboding struck him then as he looked at the Lord, who waited for the noise to settle before he continued.

 

“A Lannister army is descending on our lands and alone we lack the strength to defend all the Riverlands. Lord Edmure asks that you remember the loyalty of the Riverlords, under your brother’s reign, and send men to aid in our struggles”.

 

This got an almighty roar from those assembled and many Lords rose, their eyes alit by the prospect of war against the Freys and revenge for the Red Wedding. But the thought of yet another battle, this time not even on Northern land did not give Jon much joy.

 

 _Father went south, and never returned. Robb marched after him with twenty thousand men, and of those only the Boltons returned to plague us. The Old Gods have no power to protect us there,_ he thought with a pang of fear.

 

Yet beside him, even Sansa had joined the cheer, and Jon was forced to smile. But all he could see were the unquenchable green flames that could melt stone, as well as the shattered keep of Torrhen’s Square that now stood as testimony to those foolish enough to offer the Lannisters battle.  

 

 _Yes, we could march to safeguard the Riverlands, but to what cost?,_ he wondered darkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't know how I found the time, but I managed to write the chapter without delay. A bit of a slower chapter this time, but it adds some pieces which will be essential going forwards. I am however 100% confident that the next one will be delayed, so apologies for that. As always, all comments/criticisms are welcome, and I'll likely update again in 2 weeks.


	9. The Lady and the Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon faces a difficult decision and Sansa must make a choice of her own

 

Lord Mallister was not happy with the decision, that much was absolutely certain. He looked at Jon cooly, as the latter denied him as politely but as firmly as he could. Yet though the Lord’s handsome face was carefully composed, his piercing sea-blue eyes were narrowed slightly with anger. His son, Ser Patrek, was somewhat less subtle in his thoughts and was unable to contain himself.

 

“Your Grace, must reconsider”, he exclaimed loudly. “The Riverlands are in a dire situation, do you mean to say that the North will abandon us in our hour of need?”

 

Jon eyed him with dislike for a long moment, fighting back his annoyance at Patrek’s tone. _This one is as rash as his father is guarded,_ he thought with irritation. _Though I suppose that I cannot blame him for his reaction._

 

It had been a week since the visitors had arrived at Winterfell, yet this was the first time they had discussed the war in the South. Jon had insisted that the Lord and his retinue should first rest before they made any plans, but he had taken that time since their arrival to carefully consider Mallister’s request for a Northern army to aid the Riverlands. He had gathered information about how many men the Northern Houses could spare, as well as word about granary stockpiles, damage to castles and progress on the harvest.

 

The news was not at all what he had hoped for. The number of men that the North could field was far less than what Jon had predicted, and supplies were starting to run low as the Iron Throne blocked many merchant ships from anchoring at White Harbour. While the harvest was well under way, with the increased need for food it would take far longer to complete, and every man was needed for that.

 

It was only at last, when he could not bare any more proof of how poorly the North was doing, that Jon had invited Lord Mallister and his son to his solar to discuss the war plans. He had offered them refreshments and politely inquired as to their journey, but even then Jon knew full well that no amount of wine could sweeten the mood when he inevitably denied their request. But he had not predicted how relentlessly the Mallisters would attempt to persuade him.

 

The short, uncomfortable talk that Jon had imagined had dragged on for the better part of two hours and Ser Patrek was the main cause of it. While his father was prone to long silences while he thought, Patrek seemed unable to stop himself. He was a man grown and Lord Mallister’s heir, of age with Jon yet still baby faced and with the arrogant speech of a new made knight. In his short time in Winterfell he had already become a favourite with the washerwomen and serving girls, filling their heads with impossible tales of his exploits.

 

Worse was the way he looked at Sansa. Jon could almost fell the lust roll off him in waves when the knight talked to her, though in truth he spoke to her gently. “It is said that there is no flower so beautiful as the rose of Winterfell”, he had declared the day they had arrived. “I see that it is said truly, my Lady”.

 

That had been declared in full sight of all the Lords, and many had choked back laughter at the Southerner. For his part, Jon had wanted to gag, but Sansa accepted the overwhelming courtesy with an amused smile. That had only made him worse. Though Ser Patrek dared not touch her the way he chastely caressed every other woman around him, he had found other ways.

 

Two days later, after the feast in honour of their visit, he had begged that she dance with him. Sansa was forced to courteously accept, and had spent the dance being pressed tightly to him, her breasts pushed heavily against his chest while he rested his hands around her hips. It hadn’t lasted for long however, as he made the mistake of almost stepping on Ghost while they swayed. The direwolf had growled so savagely, that the knight instinctively leapt away. By the time he had recovered himself, Sansa had already partnered with someone else.

 

But since then Patrek’s eyes were often fixed on the curve of her breasts. If Sansa had noticed, she had made no comment, but the thought never failed to send a wave of anger through Jon. Still, he ignored the rudeness as the Mallisters had travelled a long way to Winterfell only to have their hopes dashed.

 

 _Is this what Sansa and I looked like to the Lords, when we begged them for men to defeat the Boltons?,_ wondered Jon. _If so, it is little wonder that most of the Lords denied us. To their eyes the risk of committing men was far too great, with no certainty of victory._

 

“I know of your struggles Ser, but the North doesn’t have enough men to be of aid to the Riverlords”, said Jon placatingly. “Our numbers have been severely lessened, and there is still much work to be done so that we can heal the damages of war”.

 

“Not enough men to be of aid?”, repeated Ser Patrek incredulously. “You have fifteen thousand at your command, perhaps even more if time is taken to gather them from the reaches of the North. That alone could help us defeat the Lannister army”.

 

Jon shook his head, and proceeded to explain for the second time. “Fifteen thousand men that I mean to use in gathering the harvest before winter truly comes”, he corrected. “Food stores are low in almost every Northern castle. If the men march we will likely starve to death before spring returns”. _Unless the Long Night comes first, in which case food will be the least of our worries,_ he finished with a dark thought, but he left that unsaid.

 

Lord Jason interrupted his son smoothly. There was discontent deep in his eyes but his tone was still amiable. “And what of our people? While the North harvests, the Riverlands burn. There must be a half dozen armies roaming near the River Trident, burning and raping as they go. A Frey army descended on the town of Fairmarket a few days ago and put most of it to the torch before they were defeated. A force of Lannisters move northwards, leaving a trail of fire as they go. That host could well attack my seat, Seagard, itself”.

 

 _In truth, that is concerning news,_ thought Jon frowning. _Seagard is a strong castle and to take it would require an army of several thousand men. The Lannister presence in the Riverlands has grown rapidly in a short time, just like when Lord Tywin first invaded at the start of the war._

 

“What of the Tully army?”, asked Jon. “Your own men should still number twenty thousand, if not greater. That seems more than enough to defeat the Lannisters and Freys, especially on your own lands”.

 

“Far less than that”, disagreed Lord Mallister. “It’s true that Lord Edmure has reformed the Tully army, and has marched against the Lannisters. He has won a few smaller victories and smashed large force of a thousand men near the God’s Eye. But that isn’t enough and they have wildfire, Your Grace. Besides, not all the Lords can openly support Edmure while the Freys still hold hostages from the Red Wedding. Riverrun itself is still lost to us, and a siege will be near impossible should that Lannister garrison have wildfire at their disposal”.

 

 _Riverrun is the main problem,_ thought Jon. _It was Lord Edmure that surrendered the castle to the Lannisters in the first place, now thousands may die to retake it. If the North did march the roaming armies could be defeated, but even with the Vale aiding us we’d never be able to take Riverrun before winter came on us or the full Lannister army came from the west. And there is still the issue of the harvest, if it isn’t gathered we will die a slower death than usual. If I commit, it will be our people that will suffer the most._

 

Yet doing nothing was not an option either, and Jon was not deaf to the cries of his own Lords for war. The memory of the Red Wedding was still fresh in the minds of the Northmen, and many felt that any opportunity for vengeance against the Freys should be taken. Lord Manderly in particular would be at the forefront of those Lords clamouring to march south. The Lord of White Harbour had held his silence for the last few days, though Jon could not imagine he would be pleased at the decision.

 

 _I will have to talk with him afterwards and try to appease him,_ thought Jon tiredly. _After five years of death and suffering, how can so many of my Lords still desire battle?_

 

It was a delicate situation and Ser Davos had said as much. “You weren’t made King to please your people”, the Onion Knight had reminded him. “You were made King because you could make the hard decision. The right decision. The Lords will not thank you if you don’t allow them to march, but nor will they thank you if you march and lose”.

  

 _But what is the right decision?,_ Jon wondered now. _The North has bled enough but I can’t simply sit idle while the Riverlords are slowly conquered. They fought alongside the Northmen when Robb was campaigning in the South._

  

There was a long pause while Jon pondered the situation. Lord Mallister must have felt that he had convinced Jon, for his eyes brightened slightly. But the doubt in Jon’s mind was momentary, and he had long ago decided that it was wiser to keep the men in the North. They had not been given enough time to recover their strength after the war and if they were to march, Jon could see no situation in which they returned home unscathed.

“I am sorry my Lord, but I have to refuse you”, said Jon firmly. “The North cannot spare so many men, not when our numbers have been so thinned by this war. I truly wish it were otherwise, but it cannot be helped. But you need not stand alone. I cannot give you my full strength but I do have a strong garrison of two thousand Northmen in Moat Cailin. I can promise you them to help defend the northern regions of the Riverlands and Seagard”.

 

The mention of defending his ancestral seat seemed to placate Lord Mallister somewhat, but Ser Patrek, who had barely kept quiet for a half minute, could not restrain himself. “Two thousand men is nothing compared to the power of the Lannisters”, he exclaimed. “If that is all the help you grudge us, you might as well not even send them. Were King Robb still alive, he would not have hesitated to send the entire North. I was one of the King’s personal guards when he was in the Riverlands and he was like a brother to me. I knew him well enough to know that he would not have wanted his Northmen to sit out the war while the Riverlords fight the Lannisters alone”, he urged boldly.

 

 _Two thousand Northmen was more than what was given to us when we battled the Boltons,_ thought Jon furiously. _It is a generous amount to spare considering that almost every Great House in the North is in mourning, and we lack the men to even support ourselves._

 

Ser Patrek had finally overreached himself, and Jon felt real anger overpower his sympathy for their situation. “You fought beside Robb for all of three battles, but that doesn’t give you kinship with him”, said Jon icily as he rose from his seat abruptly. “Do not presume to call him your brother again. That is a right that not even I can truly claim”.  

 

With Jon glowering at him from above, Ser Patrek paled and seemed unable to say anything for the first time. Lord Jason fell quiet too, and Jon thought that he could see a hint of disapproval on his face, though at whom it was aimed at, Jon could not say.

 

“Robb once marched to your defence when no other aid could come, it is true, but it cost the North dearly”, Jon continued. “I cannot take that same risk, not when my people are only just recovering from the war. I will send as many men as I can, but I fear that the garrison at Moat Cailin is all we can spare at this time, at least until the harvest is gathered. Then perhaps we will be able to send more. There is little else I can say about this matter”.

 

Lord Mallister rose and indicated that his son should as well. “Thank you for your consideration, Your Grace”, he said politely. “I admit, two thousand is not what we had hoped for, yet it is greater than nothing. I’m sure that your Northmen will prove useful in opposing the Lannisters”.

 

The words were kindly said, yet his face was now guarded and revealed little of his thoughts. Doubtless his mood was not improved. The Lord bowed slightly, and left the chamber with his son behind him.

 

When they had gone, Jon eased back into his chair and closed his eyes softly as a wave of lethargy swept over him. It had been a while since he had properly slept, as for the past week he had worked late into the night reading the reports sent to him by his Lords. A twinge of pain made him grimace slightly, and his eyes flickered open as quickly as they had closed. Jon reached under his tunic, and softly massaged the gash on his shoulder. The wound that he had taken in the Battle of Torrhen’s Square stubbornly refused to heal, and while the corruption was receded, the cut itself had not closed.

 

Sighing, he reached for some parchment and a quill to draft the letters that would send instruction that the garrison at Moat Cailin was to march on the Riverlands. Of course, with the old garrison marching a new one would have to take its place so there were also orders for two thousand more men to station themselves in the Neck. It took a long time to write the letters, as Jon was often dissatisfied with how they were written and was forced to start again from the beginning.

 

Along with the instruction came the naming of a commander to lead the men. _It will have to be Lord Glover that I send south,_ decided Jon. _He has experience and is a fierce warrior. Perhaps more importantly, he is somewhat cautious on the field._

 

Glover would make a fine commander, Jon did not doubt, but the appointment would likely be displeasing to Lord Manderly who would have wanted to lead the host himself. Though sending Lord Manderly to the South might placate him somewhat, the Lord of White Harbour desired revenge too much to make an effective commander. _If we are dealing with wildfire, I need restraint and good judgement,_ thought Jon. He only wished that he would lead the men himself, but his shoulder wound made it so that he could not even raise his arm, much less fight in battle.

 

Displeased with the result, Jon rewrote the letters twice, and had half a mind to write it again. Sansa excelled at this sort of thing, and it would have been easier to ask her for help, but Jon felt that it was important that the words be his own. And if he were being honest, he was faintly wary of being in the same room with her, as his mind tended to wander and his eyes gazed at areas of her that filled him with shame later. He had almost finished drafting the orders when he heard a light knock on the heavy oak door.

 

“Enter”, called Jon loudly, thinking that the Mallisters had returned to persuade him some more.

 

When the door opened, his eyebrows raised in surprise as it was not the Mallisters that walked in, but Sansa. She was wearing a dress of dark purple, with a pattern of interwoven leaves crowning the neck, and her auburn hair was tied up in the Southron style to honour the guests. It made for a lovely sight, though the gown did him no favours by clinging so tightly to her figure. Jon averted his gaze, fixing his eyes on the parchment as he continued writing. He was taking no further chances in dishonouring her. _Sansa already has a knight gazing longingly at her chest,_ thought Jon. _I have no intention of acting like Ser Patrek._

 

Sansa looked at him for a long time before she sat. “I just spoke with Lord Mallister, and he says that you are only giving them two thousand men. The garrison from Moat Cailin”.

 

“That is correct”, said Jon, still fixed on the parchment before him and unwilling to look away. “The garrison is well placed to march, though we will have to send a second force of two thousand to man the Neck in their absence. We need to keep back as many men as we can. The North has suffered enough, I don’t intend us to suffer even more”.

 

“Jon, the Lords will hate this. Many of them fought in the war and will think it cowardly to remain home while there is battle to be had”, said Sansa.

 

“Let them”, said Jon, who had always known what the Lords would say. “They will think the plan cowardly and they will think me cowardly. No doubt Lord Mallister already does. But when winter comes and our men are home and not buried in the South, unharmed and with their wives and children around them, the North will thank me for not letting them march”.

 

Sansa did not seemed pleased at that. “And what of the Riverlords?”, she demanded. Will they thank you if the Riverlands are taken by the Lannisters again before winter. They have rebelled against the crown twice already, there will not be a third time and the Queen will kill them all. You are sending too few men”.

 

“I am sending too many men”, objected Jon, now with a touch of annoyance. Of all the people, he had hoped that Sansa would support his decision, and he did not wish to argue with her. “If I commit any more we risk weakening ourselves to an irreparable point. Two thousand makes a large army, and if used correctly we can defeat many of the Lannister hosts”.

 

“It is not nearly enough to take back Riverrun”, countered Sansa, impatience now in her voice as well.

 

Jon finally dropped the quill and met her eyes. ”I know”, he said heavily. “If we storm Riverrun thousands of our men could die, and we cannot afford that. I mean our army to aid with the dispersing of these roaming bands of men, but in a few months when winter reaches the South they must come home if the castle cannot be taken by siege”.  

There was a short silence following that. Sansa looked at him expressionlessly, but her eyes were restless as she thought. _She can see some sense to the plan, but it doesn’t make her any happier,_ thought Jon.

 

“Lord Edmure is our family Jon”, she said eventually. “We can’t simply let him loose his home. If we don’t march for Riverrun, how are we any different to those Lords that denied us men before the Battle for Winterfell?”

 

“He is _your_ family”, corrected Jon instinctively. “The Tullys are no relation of mine”.

 

Sansa’s face hardened the moment he said it, and Jon mentally cursed himself. He had not meant to be so blunt, but that fact had been taught to him painfully, many times by Lady Catelyn, until it had become almost second nature to deny any kinship. Jon thought of the many times Lady Stark had tried to persuade Father to send him away from Winterfell.

 

“ _Jon is no blood of mine_ ”, he once overheard her telling Father when he was seven years old. “ _He has no place in Winterfell while your trueborn children live, and his presence here dishonours our name. Why not send him away to be fostered_ ?” 

 

Lord Eddard had been silent for a long moment, and Jon could still remember the wave of terror that had crept through him when he thought that Father might agree. “ _He is not your blood, but he is mine. Jon stays with us_ ”, Father had said eventually, in a firm tone that brooked no argument.

 

However despite that, he bore the neither the Tullys nor Lady Catelyn Stark any ill will and would gladly defend their lands if he could, for Sansa's sake and that of the Riverlords.  _But I_   _can't defend them_ ,he thought sadly.  _I lack the power to do so._

 

“Yes, Lord Edmure is _my_ family”, Sansa confirmed coldly. “And it seems that I will have to care for _my_ family, if you won’t. But family or not, he is still your man. The Tullys were bannermen to Robb, which makes them your bannermen if you are the King in the North. Ser Patrek was not wrong, were he here, Robb would send more men”.

 

“Robb was a better man than me, anyone will tell you that. He would be able to smash the Lannister hosts with two thousand men and take back Riverrun without a siege. But I can’t, and because of that we cannot afford to send more men”.

 

Sansa looked at him long and hard and her face went suddenly expressionless. _She is wearing her mask again,_ Jon realised sadly. _I caused her to put it on._

 

Looking at her now, he realised how much he truly hated the mask. Having grown used to seeing the real Sansa over the last few weeks, it felt almost as if a dark veil was smothering her radiance. Jon wanted desperately to hold her face between his hands and gently rub away that guarded expression, but knew that he would not be permitted to.

 

Sansa nodded coolly and silently crossed the room, leaving Jon sitting at his table. She was already at the door when Jon called for her again. Reluctantly she turned, though her foot was planted firmly beyond the threshold.   

 

“Ser Davos warned me that we would have to make hard choices. I’m doing this for the good of our people”, said Jon softly, walking to stand beside her. _Please understand why I’m doing this,_ he could have begged.

 

But it was the wrong thing to say, and rather than softening, Sansa’s eyes narrowed slightly in anger. “Why is it that you listen more to Ser Davos than you listen to me?”, she demanded. She continued on without giving him the time to reply. “In any case, you’ve taken the easy course. It is easy to sit safely in the North and harvest, trusting in our borders to repel any army that the Throne sends against us. But it is hard to march on the Riverlands and aid my Uncle Edmure”. When Jon had no answer for that, she shook her head slightly. “Try and remember that the Rivermen are Stark men as well”.

 

Jon stood at the door long after she had left. _Can she be right?,_ he wondered. _Have I made the wrong decision?_ He reached for the letters and read each one in turn. Only a few moments ago, Jon had been confident that he was doing what was best for the North, now he was not so sure. Sansa had been correct once before, when she had urged him to find more men before the Battle for the North. He had not listened to her then, and it had almost cost them dearly. _But is she correct about this, or does she want me to march for the sake Lord Edmure?”_

 

He shook his head, as if to shake away his doubts. _I am sending an army to the Riverlands, so it is not as if I am abandoning them to the Lannisters. We cannot afford to commit our full strength to the South, especially since the Riverlands are indefensible._ But the feeling of rightness regarding his choice now had an uncertain taint to it. Still, his mind was made, and Jon left his chamber to send the letters.

 

As he walked through the castle, deep in thought, Jon made the mistake of wandering into the great hall. Since the arrival of the visitors, the hall had been used for a great deal of feasting and many were in it despite the odd time of the morning. It was likely that more than a few Lords had been waiting for him, for as he entered there was a barrage of noise and many men leapt to their feet.

 

“Will it be war then, Your Grace?”, asked a Riverlord. “Is the North to march on the Riverlands?”

 

 _Lord Mallister has not told them yet,_ Jon realised. He was mildly relieved at this, but the Lord’s silence would likely mean that the task of informing the men would fall to him.

 

Others were clamouring around as well, throwing questions at him so fast he could barely answer. A Northern Lord wanted to know how many men Jon intended him to raise, an archer wanted to know when they would march so that he could farewell his family. A Wildling wanted to know if his people were needed in this fight, and Lord Cerwyn shook his head at the whole thing and said that marching was a mistake.

 

 _At least one of my Lords supports my decision,_ thought Jon as he listened quietly to Cerwyn. He looked past the crowd and saw Lord Glover, who was standing quietly a distance away, watching the men carefully. It was hard to determine what the Lord was thinking, but the fact he hadn’t joined the others boded well. Glover turned his head, and happened to meet Jon’s gaze for a long second. Jon waved him closer, and the Lord pushed himself to the front of the other men. They walked aside, into a nearby corridor, to talk more privily. The others did not follow and Jon was glad of this as he did not want to spend another hour arguing with his men about the plans.

 

The Lord looked at him slowly and his eyes landed on the letters in Jon’s hand. He frowned slightly at that, his eyebrows knitting. “So we will march?”, he asked slowly, his eyes still fixed on the letters.

 

Jon shook his head. “The risk is too great”, he said. “I do not mean to field our entire power, but I cannot leave the Riverlords to the Lannisters. We will send the garrison at Moat Cailin to aid them, though it is not as many men as Lord Mallister might want”.

 

The Lord nodded at that, and Jon was pleased to see that he did not object. “Who shall lead the men in the South, or is your injury already healed and your intention is to march with them yourself?”

 

“My wounds still prevent me from fighting”, Jon admitted hesitantly. “I was going to offer you the command, if you will take it”.

 

That took the Lord by surprise. “Why me?”, he asked. “Why not Lord Manderly? He has more experience commanding, and knows the South better than I do”.

 

“Lord Manderly doesn’t think clearly when it comes to the Freys”, Jon explained. “I need someone who can command well, but I also need someone who can retreat if the battle goes ill. If it comes to it, can you retreat, my Lord?”

 

Lord Glover looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Aye, I can retreat if need be. I will accept the command and see to it that our men return home unharmed. We will ride for Moat Cailin as soon as possible”.

 

Jon nodded and parted with him there. Lord Glover re-entered the hall, to another volley of questions by the men, but Jon did not want to answer their questions then, so took a side path which would turn into the grounds. Half way down the passageway he heard a conversation echoing off the stone walls. There was a deeper tone punctuated occasionally with the higher pitch of a woman.

 

 _One is Sansa’s voice,_ Jon realised as he slowed his pace, so that his footsteps wouldn’t be heard. As he turned a corner he saw whom she was talking with. Ser Patrek was leaning against the stone wall, blocking half the exit as he spoke in low tones to Sansa, who was nodding politely. The corridor was dimly lit, and two had not seen him yet so Jon was able to watch them in silence. He did not miss that the way that the knight’s eyes ran down the length of her figure, whenever Sansa looked away. Anger welled in him, but Jon made no move to interrupt and retreated a few paces so that he would not be seen.

 

“The King will do whatever he can”, Sansa was saying, though Jon thought he saw a flash of annoyance show briefly on her face. “The Riverlords will have enough aid, I promise you”.

 

Ser Patrek nodded slowly. “As you say my lady, we need as many men as possible”. There was a silence and Jon wondered if that was the end of it. Then the knight spoke again. “And what of my other proposal, have you finally considered?”. He leaned in slightly, his body almost shielding hers from Jon’s view.

 

“I… still need time to think”, said Sansa smoothly as she smiled prettily back at him. “There is much to consider”.

 

“What is there to consider?”, wondered the knight. “Marry me, my lady. We will live here or in Seagard as you prefer. Your past two marriages have not been favourable, but I vow that I will be as gentle and true a husband that you might want. Later on, we will even make strong sons together, or daughters with your beauty”.

 

 _Marriage?,_ thought Jon, not quite believing his ears. With her last marriage having ended, he had always expected that Sansa would have suitors, though he had not anticipated how soon that might begin. _She can’t marry him,_ he thought incredulously. But Sansa was speaking again, and he strained to hear her.

 

“Your serving girls will not be happy with this”, Sansa was saying drily. “Half of them have fallen in love with you, and think that you love them back”.

 

Ser Patrek laughed at that. “You mustn’t begrudge my familiarity with them though I admit that women having a way of weakening me. But you can ask if you want, I have touched none of them. I am yours alone, as I have been since we arrived”. He made to caress her face, but Sansa shifted slightly and his hand stroked at nothing but air.

 

But she did not move away, as Jon might have expected. Sansa looked at the knight speculatively for a long moment, and Jon took in a sharp breath, wondering if she would accept. “I still need time to decide”, she said eventually, finally breaking her gaze with him.

 

The knight nodded. “Yes, take as much time as you need, though I would prefer an answer before we march south again”. He took her hand and kissed it gently, before walking into the courtyard beyond. Sansa stood alone for time, gazing after him. Her face was now away from Jon, so he could not read her thoughts.

 

He wanted desperately to step out and talk with Sansa. _He does not love you, nor will he ever. All he desires is your body and your claim to the North. Don’t marry him,_ Jon wanted to beg.

 

But he held his silence. He had no control over whom Sansa could marry, nor would he deny her if this was truly what she wanted. _It is her decision,_ he reminded himself. _She made two marriages without my input, so I have no say on this third one._ But the thought was not free of the great deal discomfort he felt.

 

He thought of little else on his way to the rookery, in the Maester’s tower. The tower was one of the taller structures in the castle, and a steep spiral staircase lead to the topmost level. In earlier times, the ascent would cause him to pant and his legs would ache afterwards. Now however, he felt nothing as he climbed, so consumed was he by his thoughts.

 

 _Why did she not tell me about this? Is she considering the proposal seriously?,_ Jon wondered yet again. _He is comely enough, and of high enough birth to make a fit match. Does she actually enjoy his attentions?_ A small shiver ran through him and he tried not to dwell on that, for the thought lead down pathways best left unexplored.

 

Beneath the surprise at the situation, there was an undeniable second feeling of loneliness. _Whether it is this man or the next, Sansa will take a husband in time, I’ve always known that. There is a life for her to live, and children for her to have, but those are prospects I do not have._

 

The raven keeper was awaiting him when Jon finally reached the top. When he had lived, it was Maester Luwin that had taken care of the ravens, but since his death Winterfell had no Maester in residence. This man was no Maester of the Citadel, yet he had been sent to Winterfell by Lord Tallhart, and had served well so far.

 

“Your Grace has messages to be sent? I will send our fastest bird to deliver it, I assure you”, he said immediately.

 

“This letter is to go to Moat Cailin”, said Jon dully. “This second letter is a duplicate, send it after the first so that there is no chance of the message being lost”.

 

“I’m afraid that we have only one bird that can reach Moat Cailin. We will need to send the second letter later when more birds arrive”, the raven keeper said apologetically. “You can leave it with me if you’d prefer”. To this Jon nodded, only half aware of what he was agreeing to.

 

As the raven flew, carrying his commands, Jon felt a sudden pang of sadness as he watched it. _She is like that raven,_ he thought. _One day she will soar away, and I will be left here alone, as the last of our family. Perhaps that day will even arrive tomorrow._ But there was nothing more to be said, or to be done. Jon had made his choices regarding the North, and it now appeared that Sansa was about to make her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its been a while since the last update. I'm sorry for the delay, but I'm currently in exam season and have had assignments and tests thrown at me every few days. There wasn't enough time to update, and honestly there still isn't. But I felt that I needed to put something out, so I hope you enjoy. Unfortunately I still have a few more weeks of exams, but afterwards I should be regularly updating again. As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated and let me know whether you think Jon or Sansa has the right call about the war in the south.


	10. The Mirror - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lords of the North arrive to discuss the ongoing wars, and Jon must deal with new information regarding Sansa. Part 1 of 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is part 1 of a 2 part total chapter. The second part will be out in a weeks time.

 

The faint talking in the distance was all that was needed to wake Jon from what little sleep he had achieved. He sat bolt upright in the bed, listening alertly as the voices drew closer and stopped abruptly in front of the chamber door. But instead of intruders barging into the room, there was only a loud knock.

 

“Your Grace?”, came a muffled call through the heavy oak wood. “Your Grace, the onion knight has sent word that he needs you urgently. He awaits you in the rookery”.

 

“I will be out soon”, Jon called back, relaxing as he recognised the voice as belonging to one of the guardsmen, positioned at the base of the King’s tower. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before pushing himself off the bed. It would have been better if he hadn’t been woken so early, as today the Lords of the North would be gathering to discuss the war, and Jon would need his wits about him.

 

It was just before dawn, and the sudden rush of cold air on his naked body caused Jon to shiver violently before he could pull on his breeches and a warm tunic. Though dressed, he waited a few moments longer to give his morning arousal more time to somewhat subside. There had been a dream, he recalled, and unusually it was not the night terrors that he had long since grown accustomed to. There had been a naked girl in the dream, with hard teats, full breasts and a sex that glistened wetly. Her face was very pretty, though in truth he could not make it out clearly. She had lain on his bed and fingered herself gently, all the while begging him to fuck her.

 

“I can’t do it”, Jon had told her, though his cock had hardened at the sight and curved upwards eagerly. “You know that I can’t. I am a man of the Knight’s Watch and sworn by oath not to know any woman but duty”.

 

“You _were_ a man of the watch”, she corrected sultrily. “There are no vows to stop you now”. She had taken his hand then, and made to put it upon her mound so that he might feel her wetness for himself. It had been then that he woke, before he could actually touch her.

 

 _If I hadn’t been roused, would I have done the deed?,_ Jon mused as his manhood softened at last and he made his way to the door. But he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the answer.  

 

On the way across the snow covered grounds to the Maester’s tower, Jon questioned the guards, but it appeared that they knew only as much as he did. Yet the need must be important, for Davos had never before roused him from sleep. At the base of the tower, Jon found two more guardsmen and he left his escort with them to climb the tower alone. The first thing he saw when he had reached the top was the raven keeper, who sat in the corner of the rookery. His face as pale as milk and his hands were quivering under heavy iron chains. The ravens around him seemed to sense the fear and quorked loudly, as if expecting to gorge themselves on the man soon.

 

 _Or perhaps it is the war they sense,_ Jon thought as his eyes fell on the man. _Soon there might be corpses by the thousand for the carrion birds to feast upon._

 

Davos turned expectantly as Jon entered, an uncharacteristically hard look on his usually gentle face. “A letter came for you”, he said slowly, and with a hint of worry. “Lord Glover writes that he has commenced the march on the Riverlands at the head of four thousand men. They will be upon the Twins within a few days”.

 

Jon gave him a sharp look. “ _Two_ thousand men”, he corrected. “I told Lord Glover to march with two thousand, and leave another two thousand behind at Moat Cailin to remain as a garrison”. But Davos simply shook his head and handed Jon a rough piece of parchment, which bore a red wax seal in the imagery of a mailed first, which was Lord Glover’s sigil. The message was short and plainly written, but Jon read it a few times in succession, almost not believing his eyes. He almost wondered whether the letter was forged, yet underneath the writing was Glover’s own sign which left little doubt that the letter was truly the Lord’s own words.

 

_Your raven is received. We have added the garrison to our ranks, by your command, and our force now sits at four thousand strong. A band of Freys were sighted near the Moat, but Lord Howland’s crannogmen destroyed them before they could escape. We march on the South by nightfall, if the Gods be good._

 

Jon looked at Ser Davos dumbfounded, unable to form words for a long time. “Glover is marching the garrison south with him”, he said slowly as his mind reeled. “But under whose orders? I did not command this”.

 

Davos merely looked at the raven keeper in response and Jon turned as well, to fix the man with a deadly look. “Who used these ravens to send a message to Moat Cailin?”, he demanded the man.

 

The raven keeper spluttered for a while, but did not appear to have the ability to form words. Jon let him struggle for a long while, but his impatience was swiftly rising. “Tell me who is responsible for this”, he growled angrily. “Lie to me and you will hang”.

 

That loosened the man’s tongue somewhat, though he still stammered. “T-There has b-b-been no one that c-could have done this, Y-Y-Your Grace”.

 

Jon crouched until both their faces were level. The keeper’s beady eyes were wide with fear, but there was no lie in them at least. “No one at all?” he asked quietly.

 

The raven keeper nodded vigorously, and the words now spilled out of him. “After Your Grace had visited me to send the letters, I had only one other visitor and that was your royal sister. Besides her, there has been nobody else. I swear, m’lord, I didn’t do anything. On my honour, I didn’t even open that second letter you gave me”.

 

 _Second letter?,_ Jon wondered confused, before understanding hit him. There _had_ been a second letter. He had given the raven keeper a duplicate of his commands to be sent to the Moat at a later time, to prevent his instruction from being lost by a single raven alone. That letter too had borne the direwolf seal and Jon’s own mark, making the commands within officialy that of the King’s. It could be a simple matter to change what was written, yet Jon was forced to believe the keeper when he said that he hadn’t opened it.

 

Jon fixed the man with another firm gaze. “Where is that letter?”, he demanded slowly, fighting a sudden, horrible suspicion. Besides him, only one other person possessed a direwolf wax seal.

 

“Your sister asked to see it”, said the keeper weakly. “I obeyed without question. She sent the raven on its way some time afterwards”.      

_It couldn’t be…_ , Jon thought dully. _She wanted us to march but she couldn’t have changed the letter. She wouldn’t have._

 

Anger and hurt rose in him, and Jon wordlessly turned and fled the tower, ignoring Davos and the guards who called after him. He warred with denial the entire way, still unable to comprehend what Sansa had done. Surely the girl he had once known would never have changed the letter, yet perhaps he didn’t know this Sansa. It was after all this Sansa that was considering marriage without a mention of it to him.

 

His anger gave him speed and it was only a short while later that Jon found himself climbing the stairwell that lead to Sansa’s chambers. He burst through her door, fully intending to rouse her and demand the truth of the matter. But the sight that presented itself gave him a sudden pause. Sansa was deep in sleep, a faint smile on her lips as she breathed softly through her nose. Though Jon had made a great deal of noise entering, she had not yet stirred. There was no careful mask concealing her while she slept, and the faint lines of stress on her face were erased entirely.

 

Jon sighed deeply as he looked at her peaceful face, feeling the anger drain rapidly away. It was hard to be upset at Sansa when she looked more peaceful than he had ever seen her. Yet his hurt could not so easily be banished, and there was still a need to hear her explain why she had changed the letter. But Jon no longer had the heart to wake her. Instead, he approached the bed quietly and gently pushed back a stray strand of hair, that fluttered over her cheek.

 

“Sleep well”, he whispered softly. Sansa might have heard him through her dreams, for a small sigh escaped her lips, before her breathing resumed normally.

 

As the door closed behind him, Jon could not help but feel a deep weariness. Were it anybody else who had changed that letter, they would have been executed as a traitor and he would have swung the sword himself. Yet because it was Sansa, he had not even been able to reprimand her.

 

 _You are my blood, but I can’t simply forget this,_ Jon thought tiredly. _You might have just sent two thousand more men to their death. Did you think about that when you sent the damned letter? Were you ever going to tell me what you did?_

 

He shook his head and walked back to his own chambers, putting the issue temporarily out of his mind. Now there were other matters to attend to, and in a few hours the Lords of the North would be gathering in the great hall of Winterfell. Confronting Sansa about what she had done, must wait until later.

 

The gathering commenced at around midday, when the sun had risen high above the battlements. When he had first sent his commands to Moat Cailin, Jon had also summoned the nobility of the North to Winterfell, to explain his plans regarding the wars in the South. Almost all had answered, and had ridden swiftly to Winterfell over the past few days, likely thinking that their King meant to announce a march on the Riverlands. But today they were to be disappointed, to learn that Jon did not wish to commit to the battle against the Lannisters, and intended instead to focus on gathering the harvest before the true winter could claim the North.

 

In the blink of an eye, the eager gathering had morphed into a raging argument, as Jon had known it would. Lord Manderly in particular had argued long and hard that not marching was a mistake, a view that was shared by the many others that supported him.

 

“Now is the time for us to take up arms against the Lannister scum”, the Lord had urged Jon, while the hall watched them alertly. “The harvest can wait, but this war cannot. If we sit idle, those fighting in the Riverlands will surely curse us”.

 

Jon could admit that there was some sense behind the words, yet the fervour in which they were said made him wary. A war based on revenge would cost them dearly in the end and, no matter how sensible his words, Manderly desired war not for true justice but for vengeance alone.

 

 _I must tread carefully here,_ Jon had thought as he listened to the Lord carefully. _There is very little that is more dangerous than a grieving father, and Manderly is the most powerful of our bannermen. Upsetting or offending him would be a grave mistake when we need his men so desperately._

 

“I understand your position, my Lord”, Jon had said as gently as possible. “But if we venture south then it is the mothers, the wives and the children of our own people that will curse us for forcing their beloved to march”.

 

“They will know why we marched and the rightness of our cause”, Lord Manderly replied. “They will understand that we march because we must”.

 

 _Must we?,_ Jon had wanted to ask him. _Or would you have us march simply to sate your bloodlust._  

 

Since then however, having fielded the initial questions, Jon hadn’t needed to speak much. So contentious was this subject, that almost every man felt the need to say something, and he was seldom questioned directly afterwards. Instead, Jon watched the men carefully as they argued, though he could not contain a rising sense of foreboding. Many of the Lords disagreed with his plan to keep the men away from the war, and they still argued passionately that more men must be sent to aid the Riverlords. There were those that agreed with him however; the foremost of which were Lady Lyanna Mormont and Lord Cerwyn who had both spoken in favour of his plan, yet they were not enough to assuage those supporters of Lord Manderly who still stubbornly clung to the idea of war.

 

Amongst those supporters was Lord Tallhart, who had ridden from the ruins of Torrhen’s Square to be apart of the gathering. Jon had sent him the summons as well, but had not truly expected that the Lord would journey to Winterfell, as he was still in mourning after the Ironborn invaders had destroyed his keep and slaughtered his family. No love for Jon was there in the man, whom he clearly still blamed for the misfortunes that had befallen him.

 

“King in the North”, he had greeted Jon icily in the yard, upon his arrival. “Were you not expecting me?”

 

 _I wondered if you were dead,_ Jon almost dared to say. It was whispered by many of the men that had marched on Torrhen’s Square, that the Lord had long since perished, locked away in his shattered keep. Those whispers appeared not to be baseless, as the Lord looked more dead than alive. His once chestnut hair had many streaks of white in it, and he was as thin as a corpse. Worse were his eyes, which had sunk deep into their sockets, and burned with a fury to rival dragonfire itself.

 

“I didn’t think that you would come”, Jon was forced to answer truthfully. “But I welcome you, all the same”.

 

Tallhart had merely sneered at that. “Spare me your pleasantries, I did not journey all this way to hear them. There is war to be had, and I will not rest until I have my vengeance and bathe in Lannister blood”.

 

Since then, he had championed Lord Manderly’s cause, and had long since proven himself as amongst the most vicious Lords in attendance. Yet his grief was still fresh, and many were drawn to supporting him because of it.

 

 _If only Lord Glover were here to speak,_ thought Jon. _He is the second most powerful Lord, after Manderly, and_ _his words would add great weight to those that support not marching on the South._

 

But if his letter were to be believed, Lord Glover had long since departed Moat Cailin, from where he could march his four thousand Northmen straight to the heart of the Riverlands. The latest word from the South was that the fighting had intensified and was spilling past the Trident to as far north as the Mallister stronghold of Seagard. Glover would be seeing combat soon, and Jon could only pray that he would prevail against the Frey armies.

 

Another Lord had arisen now, a younger man of a minor House. “Our King has the right of it”, he said loudly. “We lack the strength to take back Riverrun, or to defeat the Lannisters if they were to march on us with their full strength. This is a battle that we cannot win”.

 

Lord Manderly snarled at that, and rose. “What do you know of battle, Robar?” he demanded of the other Lord. “You have never been in one yourself. I was fighting when you were still sucking on your mother’s teats”. That got a gale of laughter from many of the men, though others hurled curses back.

 

“With the Valemen and the Riverlords, our strength rises to around sixty thousand, if not more”, Manderly declared loudly, as the younger Lord sat, red faced. “That is more than enough to defeat these Frey traitors. It is more men than the Lannisters have and it is even enough to march on King’s Landing if we so choose. Aye, perhaps that is something we should consider doing as well”.

 

That got a large cheer from many of the men, whose eyes lit at the prospect of taking King’s Landing itself and claiming the Iron Throne. Many looked at Jon briefly, as if picturing how their King might look on the Throne, before turning away. To this, Jon was forced to speak, before the men started believing that victory could truly be that simple.

 

He rose, and silence fell quickly. “Assembling an army of that size and sweeping away our enemies is but a fool’s dream”, he told them loudly, his voice carrying to the back of the hall. “Sixty thousand men is only possible if every fighting man from the North, Vale and Riverlands is gathered. And that were done, it would be impossible to feed them for more than a month. At best we would be able to field only a fifth of that number, and a force that size is still not enough to take Riverrun, much less the Throne”.

 

“A month might well be all we need to turn the tide and defeat the Lannisters”, Manderly countered loudly, but his voice was almost drowned out entirely by the loud agreement in response to Jon’s words.

 

 _I am not without supporters at least,_ Jon thought as he listened to those that agreed with his words. Even Manderly’s own men looked unsure for a moment, though Jon doubted that he had changed their minds. Another Lord was rising in support of Jon, and the argument resumed without so much as a pause. Manderly shot the man a disgruntled look before he was forced to seat himself again.

 

He was not the only one that looked unhappy. Sitting beside Jon at the high table, Sansa had been observing the discussion with an impassive look on her face. But her eyes were restless, and betrayed a hint of her frustration as they rapidly flicked to survey every speaker.

 

 _She has proven that she wants to march every bit as much as Manderly does,_ thought Jon as he watched her quietly. _For very different reasons compared to the Lord, to be sure, but the results would be equally as bloody._

 

Though she sat not a foot away from him, the distance between them seemed immeasurable and though Jon hated it greatly, he was not about to make amends. Not when Sansa had just ordered two thousand men to march without consulting him. For her part, Sansa had barely looked at him throughout that discussion, and what little gaze they had shared meant little while she masked her thoughts behind impenetrable barriers. It tired Jon to think that not even she could agree with his plan. As he sat there upon the high seat of the Starks, with Sansa clearly disapproving his plan and a hall full of Lords that opposed his decision, it seemed to Jon that he was in the centre of a great storm with disapproval battering him from all sides. It made him feel exhausted and lonely, yet knew that he must hold firm.

 

Across the hall, Ser Patrek and his father, Lord Mallister, were watching the proceedings, alongside the other Riverlords and Lord Royce of the Vale. They were all guests in the North, so none had said much while the Northern Lords argued amongst themselves. Though Jon supposed that if he were given half an opportunity, Patrek would be backing Manderly’s position. Though his father was watching attentively, Ser Patrek had long since grown bored of the discussion, and had already spent a good amount of time thus far ogling the serving women as they wove through the throng to supply the men with tankards of foaming beer.  

 

As Jon watched him, Patrek happened to glance up at the high table, his eyes travelling until they were unquestionably fixed on Sansa. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Sansa’s head turn until she met Ser Patrek’s gaze. The knight shot a lazy smile at her from across the hall, his lips curving enticingly as he did so.

 

The gesture was seduction. _I want all of your body,_ the smile seemed to say. _Lead me to your bed in the depths of night, blow out the candles and spread your legs wide open. We will give pleasure to each other until the sun rises again._

 

Jon turned his head around in time to see Sansa redden, though she returned the smile faintly before turning her head away. _She is still considering the match seriously,_ he realised. Then a far worse thought came to him. _What if she has already agreed to it?_

 

Unbidden, vivid images entered his mind, so clearly that Jon almost lurched. He saw Sansa feverishly unclothing herself to allow Patrek access to her breasts, moaning loudly as the knight captured a hard nipple in his mouth and gave suck to it while he pumped forcefully between her legs. A wave of rage passed through him, and Jon’s hand reflexively clenched into a tight fist as he quietly fought to control himself, without anyone noticing.

 

But when the anger had been quelled, and the images banished, there was only an emptiness left in him. _How could you not tell me that Ser Patrek proposed marriage?,_ Jon wanted to demand Sansa right then and there, heedless of the many that would be present. _This letter affair is one thing, but marriage is another thing entirely. You smile at him and scowl at me; do I mean that little to you?_

 

For Sansa still had not so much as mentioned the match, and if he hadn’t overheard her talking to Ser Patrek about it, Jon would have had no inkling that such a thing was even being considered. The fact he hadn’t been told, both angered and saddened Jon more than he cared to admit. Yet he had not yet confronted Sansa about it.

 

 _It does not matter if she hasn’t told me, for it is her choice alone,_ he told himself yet again. _I have no right to interfere._

 

Lord Tallhart was talking now, Jon wrenched away from his thoughts of Sansa to focus on him. The Lord spoke softly compared to the other men, yet his words could be clearly heard across the entire hall.

 

“The Lannisters helped the Ironborn destroy my keep and slaughter my entire family. Yet we hesitate to bring them battle, and grovel like whipped dogs”. He spat before turning to face Jon directly. “Cowardice I name it. This is naught but a coward’s plan”.

 

A sudden hush fell, and many of the Lords looked shocked that Tallhart would speak so bluntly to their King. In the corner of the room, Ghost growled quietly, and the sound of the direwolf seemed to break the reverie. As quickly as the hall had quietened, there was now an explosion of noise and many of Jon’s more fervent supporters were rising in anger at the Lord’s presumption.

 

Lord Manderly looked uncomfortable at the situation. “That was ill said, my Lord”, he told Tallhart as gently as he could.

 

Lord Cerwyn was less restrained. “Guard your tongue”, he snarled as he rose. “How dare you speak to your King that way?”. A chorus of agreement met his words, as others scowled at Tallhart.

 

But Lord Tallhart did not appear to be daunted by the outright hostility thrown at him. “My King”, he repeated bitterly. “What does he know of loss? Has his Grace lost a wife? Has his Grace lost a son and a daughter?”

 

Cerwyn looked as though he wanted to argue further, but Jon shot him a sharp look and reluctantly he sat. One by one the other Lords followed his lead, until Lord Tallhart alone stood in that hall. Jon watched him wordlessly from across the hall, as the sudden hush spiraled horribly.  

 

“I know the taste of grief well”, Jon said quietly after a while. “My Father was beheaded, my brothers Robb and Rickon killed as well and my home was burned and pillaged”.

 

“And what of my _misfortunes_?”, Tallhart demanded. “I sent away men from Torrhen’s Square on your command, and the Ironborn were able to take the castle because of that. The blood of my family is on your hands, Your Grace”.

 

“Aye, you’re right”, Jon replied even more quietly, as the hall collectively took in a sharp breath and whispers broke out. “I haven’t forgotten that and I will mourn for your family until my dying day. I stood vigil for them myself when you refused, and put them in the ground with my own two hands when you didn’t attend the burial. I understand your grief better than you realise, my Lord”.    

 

A long silence fell, and for the first time the Lords appeared to have no words to say. Lord Tallhart’s eyes narrowed yet he offered no rebuke either.

 

Jon could still remember how small and fragile the Tallharts had looked in death. _I killed them,_ he reminded himself. The memory of that day hit him then and Jon felt it as a dull ache in his heart. He was forced to steel himself, as it would not do to show weakness in front of the Lords.    

 

Beside him, Sansa’s head turned and he sensed that she was looking at him for the first time in a long while. Reluctantly, Jon turned to meet her gaze as well. Her face was still carefully set, yet her eyes were gentler than they had been in a long time. They were filled with some strange emotion, one that Jon had never seen in Sansa before, and it appeared that his words had struck a chord with her. He searched her face for some hint of what it was. There were many things that Jon expected to see; sadness and anger or perhaps even surprise and fear.

 

But it was none of these things. _Pity_ , Jon realised slowly. _Pity for my guilt and grief._ Somehow that only made him feel worse. _There are many that deserve pity, but I am not one of them,_ he thought bitterly. _If not for me, Lady Tallhart and her children may still live._

 

“You speak of you family’s death, my Lord, but it is because of them that I hesitate to march”, said Jon at last. “It was in front of their graves that I swore that the North would never know tragedy again. How many more must die if I order the men to march? How many more will die when winter comes and there isn’t enough food to be had because the harvest wasn’t collected?” Jon shifted his gaze to Lord Manderly then. “How many sons will die in the South, unburied, if we seek vengeance for your son?”, he asked the Lord softly.

 

Yet more silence greeted his words, and it continued long after he had finished speaking. _In their heart they understand my position,_ thought Jon. _They know the risks of marching, yet admitting otherwise is still difficult for them._   

 

He looked around the room and looked each Lord in turn. Lord Cerywn and Lady Mormont nodded with approval, as were his other supporters. Lord Tallhart still looked bitter and unconvinced, yet there was doubt written on the faces of the other men. But beside him, Sansa looked downcast and her eyes were sad. She was likely thinking of her Uncle, Lord Edmure, whom she had wanted to aid, and now might have to fight without the North. Yet under the table, her hand tentatively reached for his. Jon clasped it firmly, relishing the sudden warmth that thawed his frozen fingers. He would never tell her how much the gesture had meant to him in that moment.

 

But seeing Sansa’s dejection, Jon could not help but feel immeasurably tired. _No matter what my choice, I’m hurting someone. Will this be the decision that finally drives Sansa into Ser Patrek’s arms?,_ he wondered. _Have I lost her today?_

 

It was not Sansa that he focused on at last, nor any of the others, but Lord Manderly. The Lord of White Harbour had gone very quiet and was staring into the distance, likely remembering his fallen son, Wendel. _See reason, my Lord,_ Jon wanted to beg him. _How many more Wendels must we create to avenge yours?_

 

But when the Lord finally met his gaze, Jon saw that all the fight had left him. Tears shone plainly in his eyes, and despite his large frame he seemed somehow smaller and shrunken. Manderly took a deep shuddering breath and his mouth opened as if he were about to speak.

 

 _He is going to agree with me,_ Jon realised. _My words must have reached him._ Yet looking at the Lord, Jon could not help but feel sorrowful. Manderly had mourned his son and craved revenge for over three years, yet now he was being forced to let go of that desire. _When the need for revenge is all that can sustain you, what is left once it is gone?,_ Jon wondered.

 

Once Manderly spoke, Jon knew that the decision would become final. Though there would be those that still wanted to march, Manderly was always the chief supporter of sending more men, and once he agreed with the plan the last dissension would crumble away. Yet in that moment, knowing how much it pained the Lord to do so, Jon could not bear to let him say the words. Instead he held up a hand, stopping the Manderly before he could say anything more.

 

“You have all given me much to think about”, Jon said quietly. “Let us disperse now. We will speak more of this and achieve an accord tomorrow”.

 

The dismissal was clear, and many of the Lords bowed as they rose to leave the hall. Jon himself rose swiftly and left as well, so consumed by his thoughts that he barely knew where he was even going. It was likely a mistake to conclude the discussion without a firm outcome; melancholy was rare in the North and by tomorrow Lord Manderly could well have recovered himself and desire war again. Yet it was no easy decision that the Lord was making either, and Jon thought that the man should at least have the night to make peace with his choice.

 

As Jon walked swiftly down a passageway, still heedless of his destination, a hand reached out to clasp his shoulder firmly. Jon turned to see Ser Davos watching him with concern. He had noticed the onion knight only a few times since his abrupt awakening in the morning, for Davos had not involved himself in the discussions and had visited the hall infrequently. He beckoned Jon to a nearby staircase, on which they both sat. Neither said anything for a long time, though Jon could feel the onion knight’s eyes on him.

 

“Manderly appears to agree with me”, Jon said after a while, as he stared blankly out a window, and up at the cloudy sky. “He was going to accept my decision before we ended the talks”.

 

Davos seemed surprised at that. “That is good news”, he said, before frowning slightly. “But you don’t sound too happy about it”.

 

Jon simply shook his head, not knowing how to put his thoughts into words. He ought to be content that Manderly was close to agreeing with him. Once he did, the potential of war would be ended and their people would be safe until at least spring. Yet the memory of the tragedy at Torrhen’s Square had soured all that. And as much as he tried to deny it, Sansa’s betrayal still rankled.  

 

“They might agree with me, but they will do so grudgingly”, said Jon tiredly. “In a few months, if Riverrun is still not taken, I feel that we will have the same argument again. They all want to march and even Sansa wanted it badly enough to change that letter. If the North craves war so badly, who am I to deny them?”

 

“You are their King”, replied Davos gently. “In time they will understand your reasons”.

  
_Am I?,_ Jon wanted to ask him. _I have never felt less like a King._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the abrupt ending. I was writing this chapter when I realized that I'd written nearly ten thousand words, instead of my usual five thousand. Rather than releasing the entire thing, which might be too long, I've decided to split the chapter into two halves. This is only the first part and the second will be out in a week, after its edited. Hopefully its enough for now, as I'm back on the exam grind of the next few weeks, and won't have much time to write. As always, all comments and criticisms are welcome.


	11. The Mirror - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lords of the North arrive to discuss the ongoing wars, and Jon must deal with new information regarding Sansa. Part 1 of 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is part 2 of a 2 part total chapter. It may be helpful to read the first part beforehand, to gain context.

 

After a long, companionable silence, Jon rose and farewelled Davos. He walked aimlessly for a while longer, thinking of the battle at Torrhen’s Square and the war in the South. Jon walked down long stone passageways, and climbed staircases and peered through windows in an attempt to settle his mind. Yet it appeared that melancholy had touched him as well, for he could not rid himself of his thoughts. As he had that very morning, Jon found himself ending his journey in front of the door to Sansa chambers. He stared at it for a long time, wondering whether he dared enter. It would likely not be a pleasant conversation, yet he knew that it was one they ought to have.

 

_I will ask her about the letter,_ Jon told himself. _I will ask her about Ser Patrek’s proposal as well. Whatever her choice, I need to know if this is what she truly wants._

 

Though his resolve was firm, Jon hesitated outside the door for a while longer. To get answers from Sansa might not be what he needed at this time. If she wanted to marry Ser Patrek, regardless of his opinion, there would be little else to do. Jon sighed, and braced himself before he knocked on the door sharply. There was no answer. He tried the door again, only to be greeted with more silence.

 

“Sansa”, he called. “Can I enter?” But yet again, there was no reply. Frowning now, Jon pushed at the door, which to his surprise opened. At first glance the chamber was empty, yet the distant trickle of water being sluiced and faint female voices let him know that there were other people nearby.

“Sansa!”, Jon called again, loud enough that his voice echoed faintly off the chamber walls. The voices abruptly stopped, and for a long moment there was total silence.

 

Then, from an inconspicuous side door, a woman hurried out of the room beyond. Jon recognised her as one of Sansa’s maids; sixteen, very pretty and one of the women that Ser Patrek had taken a great interest to in his time at Winterfell. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth wide, as if steeling herself to say something difficult, yet Jon cut her off before she could begin.

 

“Where is my Lady sister?”, he asked the girl squarely.

 

The courage seemed to leave the handmaiden, and she shook slightly with fear at being addressed directly by her King. “If it please Your Grace, you can’t see her just now”, she squeaked in a voice that was high with fear.

 

It did _not_ please His Grace, and Jon eyed the maid coolly. “And why is that?”, he asked bluntly, though not unkindly. The poor girl appeared to lose her tongue, and spluttered just like the raven keeper had done only that morning. She seemed unable to be able to form any more words, though help came to her before the silence drew out too long.

 

“It’s alright”, called Sansa to her maid from afar. “You can leave now. My brother can tend to me for a short while”. The handmaiden bowed quickly, and left the chamber red-faced. “Close the chamber door before you enter, Jon”, Sansa called out. Jon did as she bid and entered the second room, feeling confused.

 

The air that met Jon when he opened the side door was thick with steam and had a floral perfume to it. The windows were beaded with water, and the room was so warm that he could feel moisture running down his forehead as well. Jon stopped abruptly when he realised where he was. Sansa’s chamber was one of the more opulent rooms in the castle, and was richly provisioned to meet all the needs of a highborn Lady. It also appeared to boast an adjoining bathing chamber, which few other rooms in the castle possessed. Even Jon’s own quarters lacked bathing provisions, as it was difficult for the water to be regularly carried up the stairs from the hot springs at the base of the castle to the rooms above.

 

He had never been in this room, nor even known that it existed, but that was likely because it was one of the newer additions to the castle. Thinking back, Jon thought he could vaguely remember Lady Catelyn ordering it built for her eldest daughter.

 

Sansa sat inside a large copper tub in the centre of the room, with her back to him. Her hair was still pinned in an intricate Southron knot, and was still dry as she had kept her head elevated. But the rest of her body was submerged under the water, over which floated a thick white layer of soap and foam. Though her back was to him, they saw each other clearly, for hung in each of the four corners of the room were enormous silver mirrors, held to the wall by thick wrought iron frames. Through the reflections that they cast, Jon could see both of them from many different angles. Sansa smiled at him softly, and sunk a little deeper to better hide her nakedness. Only the tops of her shoulders were visible above the water, but underneath her hands were crossed over the points of her breasts, to shield her teats from view.

 

Jon finally found his voice, aware that Sansa was watching him carefully. “I’m sorry to trouble you”, he managed at length. “I didn’t realise that you were occupied. We can talk some other time”.

 

But Sansa shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I think that there’s enough soap to cover everything”, she said, looking down at her chest to confirm that. “You can stay if you want”.

 

She was not wrong about the soap, which formed a layer above the water dense enough that his eyes could not penetrate it. Still, Jon had half a mind to leave anyway. Through there was little else to see besides Sansa’s neck, he could already feel his manhood twitching uncertainly. He had been aroused by glimpses of her body before, yet had been when she was fully clothed. Her  nakedness now would make a glimpse more potent by far.  

 

Sansa was eying a small water basin, which sat on the floor just out of grasp. She reached for it, but the angle at which she twisted caused her breasts to rise full above the water. Had Jon not been looking at the floor then, he felt that he would have seen her teats. Sansa reddened and quickly abandoned the idea, clutching at her breasts more securely to prevent more mishaps. But she was shivering slightly now, as the water in the tub rapidly lost heat.

 

Jon sighed and moved closer then. _If she sits still, then there is nothing to see,_ he told himself firmly. _And_ _this may be the only chance I get for answers._

 

He grabbed the basin off the ground, but hesitated at handing it to Sansa. Instead, Jon pulled closer a large bucket of hot water, one of the many that lined the walls, and filled the basin with it. “Close your eyes”, he told her softly.

 

Sansa hesitated for a moment before obeying. Jon poured the hot water gently on her, so that it ran off her face and doused her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. The sight was nothing that he hadn’t seen before, yet her breasts were more enticing than he remembered. They floated near the surface of the water and bobbed slightly as the stream struck them. Sansa stiffened at the initial pouring, but had relaxed by the second one. The muscles in her neck visibly loosened, and she smiled faintly as her skin steamed from the heat. She scrubbed at the skin of her arms, working on them while Jon refilled the basin and poured on a different area so that all exposed skin was washed by the hot water. Once he even asked her to bend forwards, so that he could pour water on her back.

 

As he neared the end, Jon misaimed one of the pourings, and the impact of the water stream sent ripples that parted the soap layer by her chest. Sansa did not seem to notice but in those few seconds, before the layer could reform, Jon half-glimpsed the water blurred shadow of her nipples, deep under the surface.

 

_Pink,_ he realised with a pang. _Her teats are pink._

 

The thought made him hard in seconds, and his arousal strained against his breeches so uncomfortably that Jon wanted to groan. He almost dropped the basin and fled then, but there were still questions to be asked, and he didn’t want Sansa wondering why he had suddenly left. _Knowing the colour isn’t so bad,_ he told himself. _Many women must have nipples of that colour. It’s not as if I’ve properly seen them either._

 

But after that, he poured slowly and with caution, ensuring that the soap wouldn’t break again. Sansa appeared to be content. After a while, her eyes closed and her head lolled back so far that Jon wondered whether she had fallen asleep. The bucket of hot water emptied quickly, and with one final basin, it was drained. Instead of taking a second bucket, Jon stopped there and crouched silently near the tub. For a long moment there was silence, but finally Sansa opened her eyes and turned to look at him.

 

“Lord Glover has marched on the Riverlands. With four thousand men, not the two thousand that I had intended”, Jon said quietly. “He writes that the command was changed”. It was not a question, and he eyed Sansa deliberately. After all, they both knew the reason for the change in command.

 

Sansa at least had the grace to look ashamed. She watched him wordlessly for a moment with a look of contrition in her eyes, before reaching out of the tub to grasp his hand in her wet one. It was intended as a comforting gesture, yet Jon wished that she hadn’t as the bath was churned by the movement to reveal more of her body underneath and her teats rose to hover just under the surface of the water, threatening to peak into the air.

 

“I’m sorry”, she said hoarsely. “I only wanted to send more aid, and it seemed better to use the garrison rather than letting those men sit idle. But I should have told you first”.

 

“Good men will die”, said Jon. “Good _Northmen_ will die. In a way, four thousand makes a weaker host than two thousand. They are now too large to avoid battles or retreat effectively. And should they be forced back, there is no garrison at Moat Cailin to cover a retreat anymore. The men are marching with supplies only intended for an army half the size of their own. I might have to send yet another force to ensure that this one doesn’t simply starve if the campaign is prolonged. I could have told you all of this if I had been asked. Gods, Sansa, how could you do this?”

 

He had worked himself into a frenzy, and his voice steadily rose without him meaning for it to. The thought of the men that would die was hard enough, but the knowledge that they would die in his name was what stung. By the end of it, Jon found himself shouting out of sheer frustration, his voice made even louder by the piercing echo off the stone walls.

 

Sansa’s eyes were now shining with tears, but she nodded in agreement to his words. “I’m sorry Jon. I’m so sorry”, she whispered. “Back then, I was so sure that we needed to send more men.

 

The sudden anger left Jon quickly, as he took in a deep breath. _I did not mean to upset her,_ he thought with a stab of regret. He reached out and took her face gently in one of his hands, stroking her cheek softly with his thumb to reduce the sting of his words. Her eyes were still filled with tears, but she blinked them away before they could fall.  

 

“What of now?”, Jon asked as gently as he could, though there was still a rough edge to his voice from frustration. “Do you still think the same of this war?”

 

Sansa smiled weakly. “I still us want to march”, she admitted. “But what you said in the hall convinced me that perhaps staying back could be wise as well. The Riverlords still have more men than we do, and they can defeat the bands of Lannister invaders in time. If you can recall the men, try to do so. I’ll send a message to Lord Glover myself, and explain what I did”.

 

Jon shook his head. “The men are in the South already. Even if they could receive a new message in time, I can’t simply order them to retreat. For better or worse, the garrison is committed until Lord Glover marches them home”. There was silence at that, and Sansa turned her face away. She looked regretful, but that certainly didn’t gladden him.

 

“What am I to do with you, Sansa?”, he asked tiredly. “When the Lords find out what you’ve done, many might approve but others will be furious. It is after all their men that make up the garrison. Those Lords will likely demand that you be chastised somehow”.

 

Her face fell at that, but Sansa nodded. “I can answer to the Lords if they are displeased. As for chastising… that is your decision I suppose. If you want to put me in a dungeon, I promise that I won’t object”.

 

That got a dry smile out of him. It pained him to even upset her, so he almost certainly would not be able to bare throwing her in the dungeons. Even if he could, the thought of Ned Stark’s daughter imprisoned would spark outrage amongst the Lords.

 

“Nothing like that”, said Jon. “But I imagine that the Lords will want reassurances that something like this won’t happen again. I will need your wax seal for a time, and your word that you will let me read whatever messages that you send. And if this happens again I might actually be forced to confine you for a few months, to your chambers at least if not the dungeons ”.

 

To this Sansa nodded, and they lapsed into a brief silence. _At least she now understands,_ he thought as he watched a stray droplet run down the length of her neck. _At least she has considered the effect of her command._ “Why didn’t you tell me what you had done?” he asked sadly. “I thought we agreed to trust one another”.

 

Pain glanced through Sansa’s eyes and she squeezed his hand. “I do trust you”, she said earnestly. “I trusted that you would do the right thing for the North. But the right thing for the North isn’t always what is right for this war”. Jon opened his mouth to say something then, but she put up a hand. “You care for the North. Manderly cares for vengeance. Tallhart cares for blood. Glover cares for home and Mallister only cares for enough men to defend Seagard. Yet who amongst us truly cares for my Uncle Edmure? He sent me a letter you know, written by his own hand and begging for aid. I couldn’t refuse him then”.

 

_If I were Sansa, and if it were my Uncle that was at war, would I have acted any differently?,_ Jon wondered. _Love is after all the death of duty. Yet I’m not sure how much I can trust her anymore._  

 

That realisation was painful, but he kissed her hand lightly then as if to say that the matter should be dropped for the time being. Sansa had changed the commands out of love for her Uncle, and though it was a reckless move to send the men, Jon could at least understand the need that had driven her.

 

He made to leave then, but Sansa caught him by the hand. “Don’t leave just yet”, she said quickly, before continuing more hesitantly. “There is something else that I haven’t told you. I haven’t known what to do about it for a while, yet I’ve thought hard about it, and I think I do now”.

 

_Ser Patrek’s proposal,_ Jon realised dully. _She has made her mind about it._ It was good that Sansa was going to tell him about it, but Jon wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear the answer. _No matter what, I will respect her choice,_ he told himself yet again. Yet fear laced him at the thought of Sansa accepting the proposal.  

 

Sansa let go of him then, and grasped the edges of the tub firmly. “I think that I’ve bathed enough for now. I should get dressed”.

 

“Would you like me to step outside?”, Jon asked automatically, too consumed by his own thoughts to even understand what he was saying.

 

She considered that for a moment, then shook her head. “Just turn around and let me put on my robe. It’ll take too long to properly clothe myself, and I’d like to talk with you now. I won’t take long”.

 

_Maybe she’s accepted,_ Jon thought. _That might be why she suddenly wants to speak of it to me._ But he did as she asked, and turned his back to Sansa. He stared at the cold floor for a time, as Sansa did something behind him. Suddenly there was loud rushing sound, followed by fainter trickling noises of falling droplets, as Sansa rose from the tub and the water fell off her.

 

Jon kept his eyes fixed on the floor, ignoring the sudden thoughts about how Sansa would look as she climbed out to dry herself. _Her teats are pink, but is the hair between her legs auburn?,_ he wondered, before he screwed his eyes shut. Staying here had been a mistake as despite his efforts he had seen too much of her body, and could now almost picture the curves of her nakedness. But auburn hair or not, Sansa’s body might soon be only meant for Ser Patrek’s eyes, and Jon would not have her dishonoured.

 

With his eyes still firmly closed, he looked upwards unseeingly. _She will leave soon,_ Jon thought sadly. _But at least she will be free of me. No more of these observations, no more chancing her modesty to fate. Away from me is the best place for her._

 

He opened his eyes then, thinking he would see nothing but the stone walls of the chamber. Yet in the daze of this thoughts, Jon had forgotten about the mirrors. One loomed in front of him now, as tall as a grown man and in its reflection he saw everything that he had ever dreaded seeing.

 

Sansa was seated on the rim of the tub, as naked as her name day, while she dried herself with a small towel. Her firm breasts bounced slightly as she worked to erase the lines of water and soap that ran lazily off them. Jon shuddered as his eyes fell on her teats, which were two small buttons each surrounded by a perfect pink circle the size of a large coin. The breasts themselves were large, soft, and were coloured a lighter shade of cream compared the skin surrounding them. Sansa dried each in turn, rubbing at them gently with her towel. When the warm cloth had been moved away, Jon saw that the nipples had hardened, even as his own cock had now.

 

_This is not… I must… no…,_ thought Jon blankly, finding it impossible to form a coherent thought. He knew that he had crossed a line, one that should never have been passed, and yet it was impossible to tear himself away from the sight of Sansa’s body. He drank in the sight of her bare body, unable to turn away or close his eyes, all pretense of modesty now forgotten.

 

Desire burned hot within him and images forced their way into his mind, overwhelming every other thought. He remembered his dream from that very morning, in which he had found himself abed with a lithe, naked girl. Except now the girl had a face, whereas in the morning she had been merely a vision. He saw a warm, soft, hard nippled Sansa laying herself on his bed; fingering her sex while she begged him to fuck her.

 

There was no question anymore as to whether he would agree, and it was not Ser Patrek that he now saw atop Sansa, but himself. After all, how could one deny Sansa when she was in their bed, both wet and willing? Jon could almost see himself climbing over her, and could almost feel each thrust as he pumped his cock deep into the warmth of her burrow. The Sansa in his thoughts moaned and squirmed with pleasure under him, her breasts swaying rhythmically from the force of their passion, until he finally stilled one by capturing it in his mouth, nipping and sucking at the nipple.   

 

_Too much,_ realised Jon numbly. _I’m going too far._ Yet he found that he did not truly care, and it was further still that could go. His cock was harder than he could remember it, and was straining against his breeches with such vigour that Jon wondered if the laces might break.

 

Oblivious to his turmoil, Sansa began to dry her legs, working the towel down her thighs, and up the soft curve of her arse. Her legs spread open as she did so, and despite his best efforts, Jon could not help but see deep between them. The hair between her thighs was auburn indeed, but a lighter shade than the hair of her head. Her sex glistened wetly within the curls, and Sansa’s inner lips seemed to flutter when she dabbed the towel at her mound, soaking away the soap bubbles that had collected in her bush.      

 

As she passed the towel over her flat stomach, something finally caught his eyes and the lusty images in his mind stilled and abruptly faded away. For a long while, Jon stared at the reflection in the mirror, not believing his eyes, wondering how he could have missed it the first time. Then a horror such that he had never known rose in him, and his breath came raggedly.

 

“Sansa”, he said simply, but his voice shook violently.

 

She looked at him curiously, and finally her eyes met his own through the mirror. “Jon”, she screamed and hurriedly leapt for her bathing robe, to cover her nakedness. But it was too late, and he had already seen everything there was to see.

 

Jon turned around, and walked swiftly to her. Sansa’s back was to him as she struggled frantically at the laces of the robe. “No”, he whispered gently, as he spun her around. “Let me see it”.

 

The sun was streaming through the window, and auburn of her hair shone brightly as it caught the light. But there was nothing bright about her face. Her eyes were downcast, and there was now a hint of tears in them. Sansa shook her head rapidly. “You can’t”, she whispered frantically. “I’m already immodest… and it’s improper to show you”. But her tone was unconvincing, and let him know that modesty alone was not the reason she wouldn’t let him see.

 

“Please Sansa”, Jon begged her. “Please. I have to know if what I saw was true”. Her head dropped so that she was looking at the floor, a silent indication that he had seen it true. Jon cupped her face in both his hands, and lifted it so that they were at eye level. “Please?”, he begged one last time.

 

Sansa took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked at him back. The tears were gone from her eyes, but she looked no less miserable. Jon held her gaze, and he would hold it forever if need be, to reassure her that she was safe with him. But there was very little reassurance that he could give for what he had seen.

 

Slowly, not breaking the gaze, Sansa reached for her chest and began unlacing the top portion of the robe. It took time, as her hands shook and she had tied the knots clumsily in the first place, but that did not matter to Jon, who held her face gently as she worked. At last, the last knot was untied. Sansa dropped her gaze, and tentatively opened a portion of her robe, though she cupped together both of her breasts to block her teats from view. But for the first time, Jon was not interested in her breasts, and it was lower down that he focused as he crouched at her feet.

 

The horror rose in him again, and his heart was pounding forcefully in his chest. Sansa’s belly was smooth and soft to the touch, and underneath the skin he could feel the faint outline of muscle. But large portions of it were marred by a motley of dull yellow-grey bruises and higher up, just under the breast, the skin was discoloured enough that it still had a tinge of purple to it. Jon traced that one gently with his finger, and Sansa shivered as his fingers softly skimmed the underside of her breast. He followed the line of bruising lower, until he had almost reached the edge of her auburn bush, before he finally stopped.

 

“There were more, but they healed. A maester told me that these would heal as well”, she said in a small voice. “It doesn’t hurt at least, and the bruises are fading at last. In a few more weeks, they should be gone”.

 

_Bruises heal,_ thought Jon dismayed. _But memories cannot be erased. Oh Sansa, what did he do to you?_

 

It was terrible to look at now, yet how much worse must it have been when the injuries were still fresh? They had never truly spoken about Sansa’s captivity with the Boltons, and with the silence Jon had somehow tricked himself into not thinking about what must have happened to her. It was better for his sanity, and Sansa did not wish to relive her experiences either. Yet now, with the proof of the hurts she had borne in front of him, the truth was impossible to ignore. An anger was rising in him, a white hot fury that consumed every fibre of his being, though for Sansa’s sake he did not let it show. Yet the sight of Ramsay Bolton’s abuse boiled his blood. _Were he alive now, there wouldn’t be a force in this world that would stop me from tearing him apart._

 

But his anger blanched as he looked up, and took in Sansa’s face which was streaked with tears. She made to withdraw then, but Jon rose to hug her fiercely, a hint of tears in his own eyes. His arms wove behind her and clutched at the arch of her back, pulling her tightly into his body while her own arms encircled him as well. The unlaced robe caused her heavy breasts to spill free, and they pressed half-naked against his chest. He could feel one her nipples through his tunic, but Jon did not care about that now, and pressed her warm, bare body to him with as much force as he could muster. Sansa was breathing heavily against his shoulder, and it appeared that she was fighting the tears that threatened to fall.

 

After a while, her breathing softened, and she calmed somewhat while she leaned on him. “What can I do?”, Jon asked her desperately. “Name anything, and I will do it”. He meant that. There was no journey that Jon wouldn’t undertake, no land that he wouldn’t scour and no person he wouldn’t kill if it could spare her pain. He could even approve of a marriage to Ser Patrek Mallister, and gladly, if it would heal her spirit.     

But Sansa shook her head, and finally pulled free of him to lace the robe and cover herself properly. “You left the Wall and launched a war to retake Winterfell. Our home is ours again, and _he_ died more painfully than I could have dreamed. You’ve already done everything I’ve needed, and there is nothing more you can do”.

 

There wasn’t anything else that could be said and Jon parted with her not long afterwards, all thought of further discussion between them suddenly forgotten. He walked back to his chambers in cold fury, his thoughts still consumed by those terrible injuries. But when the door had closed behind him, the rage suddenly could not be contained and he retrieved Longclaw from its perch on the armour stand. The dresser, made of a thick elm wood, was what tasted his wrath. The wood was hard and thick enough to break a normal weapon after only a few blows, yet against Valyrian steel it was no match. Longclaw hacked it into pieces, shearing through the wood and sending splinters flying in many directions. Faster and faster Jon swung, as if he were slashing at Ramsay Bolton himself.

 

But when the dresser resembled nothing more than kindling, the anger abruptly died and was replaced with an intense sorrow. Sansa’s tearful face swam before him, as did the injuries inflicted on her body. An overwhelming guilt filled him then, and Longclaw fell out of his hand as Jon slid to the floor, his injured shoulder screaming with pain from the jarring it had received. Yet he hardly felt that, and the silent tears that now streamed down his face was not for his pain, but for Sansa’s.

 

_I did nothing while this was happening,_ he thought. _While Sansa was trapped here, I was Lord Commander at the Wall with a thousand men at my command. I could have marched them on Winterfell with King Stannis, or even left the Wall to rescue her alone. But instead I sat at Castle Black, keeping my oaths to the Watch and thinking myself honourable._     

 

Yet this was the terrible price of honour. For what had a sister’s need been compared to his oaths? What had Sansa’s misery been compared to the threat of the White Walkers? Jon sat huddled on the hard floor for a long time, waves of guilt, sorrow and fury wracking him intermittently. It took a long time for his mind to clear itself, and for him to stand again. But once he finally had regained his footing, he knew what he must do.

 

_There is something that I can do for her,_ he thought firmly. _I will never let her experience pain again._

 

That night there came a knock on his door. The visitor let himself enter, but paused at the entrance as his eyes fixed on the ruin of what used to be an elm wood dresser. Yet he made no comment, and turned to focus on his King, who stood on the balcony and was staring blankly at the full moon, as a true wolf might have done.

 

“You asked to see me, Your Grace?”, Lord Manderly asked, taking a few steps forwards.

 

“I did”, said Jon softly, his eyes still fixed on the skies. “I have reconsidered your proposal, and have decided to give you a command. Take two thousand men and sail them from White Harbour to the Riverlands. You are to besiege the Twins while the remainder of our men march on the South”.

 

He turned around then, to look at the Lord carefully. Manderly’s face had lit up at the thought of being sent against the Freys, yet there was confusion written on his face as well.

 

“Will we be committing our entire strength then?”, the Lord asked, his tone betraying a lurking curiosity.

 

But Jon shook his head at that. “I will send another force down the King’s Road with a second commander, to be marched on the Riverlands. But that host will be only one thousand strong; not our full strength. The harvest must still be gathered so I am keeping back most of the men for that. You are to march on the Twins, and lure the Freys back to defend their home. But offer them no battle, and retreat immediately if engaged by an army. My hope is that the lure will be enough to weaken the defence around Riverrun, so that our men can defeat the Lannister armies surrounding it, though the castle itself may elude us in the end”.

 

Manderly nodded, yet the curiosity seemed to win him over then, and another question blurted itself out.

 

“What has changed your mind, Your Grace?”, he asked, his eyebrows narrowing in confusion. “Only this morning you were urging me against vengeance”.

 

Jon’s lips twitched upwards in what he intended to be a smile, but came out as a grimace. “This is not vengeance”, he replied simply. Yet the thought behind his words were anything but simple.   _This is for Sansa. The North must be kept safe, yet I can’t sit idly by again, not when I have seen the cost of my inaction. She wants desperately to protect her Uncle, so that is what I shall do, in her stead and for her sake. I owe her that much and more, for every injury on her body_   _that I couldn't protect her from_ _._   

 

But he said none of that and the Lord seemed to sense that it was all the explanation that he would receive. He bowed and made to leave the room. Yet there was one final question, and Manderly turned once more.

 

“Who will lead this second host on the South?” he asked, one foot already across the threshold.

 

The got a real, albeit faint, smile out of Jon, who had agonised over that very question. He would have prefered to give the men to Lord Glover, but that would rise his numbers to five thousand, which would put a large burden on food. No, any second host would need to be kept separate, and under the command of someone else. Yet Lord Tallhart was too vicious to be trusted with command, and Lord Cerwyn was too inexperienced. That left only one other, injured as he might be.

 

“That host is mine”, said Jon simply, committing himself to the wars in the South.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter is a direct continuation from the one before it (chapter 10), so it might be good to read that one before to refresh your memory for this one. I think that this chapter is a rough indicator of the half way point. I always thought that 20 chapters would be the magic number, but that might have risen a bit for the story grew in the telling. Unfortunately exams will mean that I'm off writing for around 2 weeks, so there will be a gap after this one. Let me know what you thought and, as always, all comments/criticisms are welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. This is my first attempt at fanfic so any and all comments/criticism are welcome. I'm also open to suggestions so feel free to let me know what you want to see or even where you think the story is going.


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